


only fools fall for you

by hollywooduniversityalumnus (awkwardambition)



Category: Hollywood U: Rising Star
Genre: F/M, Teacher-Student Relationship, will get smutty later lmao rip me
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-21
Updated: 2021-03-08
Packaged: 2021-03-10 01:48:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 42,114
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27655727
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/awkwardambition/pseuds/hollywooduniversityalumnus
Summary: I’ll try to make you proud, she’d said. You already have, he wanted to reply.
Relationships: Thomas Hunt - Relationship, Thomas Hunt/Main Character, Thomas Hunt/Main Character (Hollywood U), Thomas Hunt/Original Character(s), Thomas Hunt/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 8
Kudos: 24





	1. 1. burning glances, turning heads

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She’d never been to a masquerade, after all.

* * *

_He really should know better_ , Margot thought, _to expect that his class would be paying attention on a Friday afternoon before the long weekend._

As Professor Hunt, the surliest yet most accomplished educator to roam the halls of Hollywood University, all but threw Lance Sergio out for being extremely obvious about taking excessively filtered selfies during the lecture, she took the opportunity to lean over to Addison, poking her with the eraser end of her mechanical pencil. The blonde, as if being suddenly woken, started, causing her gel pen to make a squiggle just off the doodle she was mindlessly making on the edge of her paper.

“What?” Addison asked, voice barely louder than a whisper.

Margot shrugged. “I’m bored.”

“I think we’re _all_ bored,” Addison teased. “But at least some of us are more subtle than others.”

She nodded towards the front, where the professor had turned his attentions to Jenni Whitman, whose open laptop screen displayed one of the trashier celebrity gossip websites. Beside her, Bianca Stone surreptitiously slipped her phone into her pocket and bowed her head over her notebook, as though trying to commit the blank pages to memory, and Shae, another of Bianca’s friends, panicked and stuffed her phone in the front of her shirt, making a strange lump in the fabric.

As Jenni, too, packed up and took her leave at his insistence, Professor Hunt returned to the lectern, his jaw tense.

“While I understand that you are all incapable of delaying gratification long enough to pay attention in my class, I maintain my zero-tolerance policy for distractions. It would do the rest of you well,” he gritted out, “to not force my hand any more than it’s already been.” His eyes slowly took in the remaining pupils sitting in the hall. “Do I make myself clear?”

The lecture continued.

As he began a diatribe on romantic comedies, Margot turned back to Addison and gestured for her to look at her notebook. Addison subtly glanced down as she pretended to stretch, reading the message written on the corner of the page in very, very light pencil lead strokes.

_Do you think he’s ever even seen a rom com?_

Addison smirked and turned the page on her notebook, scrawling her reply in much more perceptible pink glitter ink.

_Not on purpose, if at all._

Margot suppressed a laugh at the thought.

_Like, maybe he sat through You’ve Got Mail thinking that it was about the postal service?_

_Or Mystic Pizza being about a magical pizza._

_Or Crazy Rich Asians being a biopic._

_Or-_

“I thought I made myself clear.”

The two girls jumped in their seats, hearts pounding, expecting to find the frowning professor looming over them. Luckily for them, his attention was on Shae, whose poorly hidden phone in her shirt had become quite the spectacle, as the screen lit up behind the thin fabric and an instrumental snippet of a Top 40s hit blared from behind the buttons.

“Out,” Professor Hunt snapped. When Shae didn’t immediately move, he all but yelled, “Out!”

* * *

_Dear God_ , she thought, _this lecture is never-ending._

She was one of perhaps sixteen students left in the hall. Many others, including Bianca, had either flown the coop during the mandated fifteen-minute break, or were not-so-nicely asked to leave by the increasingly tense professor. She had flirted with the idea of beginning her long weekend early, too, but she knew she was already on thin ice with Hunt (to be fair, when isn’t she?), and she might as well learn something anyway. She didn’t have anything to do or anywhere to be. Unlike many of her classmates, she wasn’t heading home for the long weekend, and her plans for the next four days were most likely going to be a cycle of sleep, catching up on the show Chris recommended, and getting takeout.

“… and that is why we’re discussing the decline of the romantic comedy, a genre that relies all too often on an unbelievable formula. Miss Sinclair?”

Addison’s head snapped up. “Yes, Professor?”

“Kindly give us an example of a trope commonly seen in romantic comedies. I am assuming you are familiar with them.”

“Y-yes,” Addison said, twirling her fuzzy-capped gel pen with her fingers. “Um, in, um, How to Lose a Guy in Ten Days, the two leads often fought and got on each other’s nerves but fell in love with each other anyway.”

Professor Hunt nodded. “Thank you, Miss Sinclair. A topical example of an overused trope. How often have you seen the two lead characters spend most of a movie fighting with each other, only to end up together in the end because of some ill-established passion? Far too often, I’d assume.”

As he droned on, Margot reached over and patted Addison’s arm. “Good job.”

The blonde returned the smile, relieved to have survived the encounter. “Thanks, I was dying inside.”

“Real love is nothing like that,” Hunt said, sneering. “Real love, the kind that exists outside of a cinema screen or five-dollar DVD bin, is not a predictable, clearly laden path with a clear and promised conclusion. Expecting a happily ever after in a relationship is naïve at best.”

“Who hurt him?” Addison mumbled to her.

She poked Addison again with her pencil. “Can you imagine someone loving Hunt? Or even dating him?”

“No! It’d be like dating an angry bear. It’d be a miracle if they lived to tell the tale. I heard he’s single, unsurprisingly.” Addison shook her head.

“He probably has crazy high standards. Do you think he has a type?” She bit her lip, assessing her professor from afar. Though his modelling days were far behind him, he still maintained a well-kept, impeccable appearance that often made her wonder what he would look like without the constricting suits he wore like second skins. His features were both manly yet delicate, as if the world had taken its sweet time with perfecting his visage. And his jawline … sharp enough to cut glass. He was definitely not lacking in looks, talent, or drive, which was what made his being perpetually single all the more intriguing, though his personality made it understandable.

“Yeah, if perfect is a type. Like, someone with a model hot body, a mind as sharp as a stiletto, and a Hollywood career that’s skyrocketing.” Addison giggled.

She tapped her lip with the eraser end of her pencil, thinking. “So, a fictional person.”

Addison leaned into her, eyes glimmering with amusement. “I bet it’d be like getting graded all the time. He’d be judging your outfit, insulting your conversation, critiquing your kissing technique! ‘Too much tongue. You call that a kiss? Kindly remove yourself from my sight.’”

She chuckled. “‘You’ve got to do better than that if you want me to feel anything other than complete and utter monotony.’”

“‘I’ve seen more believable kisses on The Bachelor.’”

The laugh that bubbled out of her was loud enough to capture the attention of the very man they were emulating. His eyes narrowed as he spotted her quickly trying to clamp her mouth shut.

“Miss Schuyler! Is something amusing? Perhaps you’d like to finish off my lecture on the difficulty of realistically portraying love?” he asked.

She straightened in her seat. “Sorry, Professor.”

* * *

“… And in conclusion, once a genre full of heart, the majority of romantic comedies have descended into farce bereft of true emotion. Class dismissed.” The professor strode over to his desk and began the necessary routine of shutting off the projection screen. As he did, the rest of the class stood up, stretching, and began packing their things away. Excited voices began eagerly discussing their plans for the weekend.

 _Thank God_ , Margot thought. _The never-ending lecture was over. Let the weekend-_

His eyes met hers, a pointed gaze. “Except for you, Miss Schuyler. Come see me. We need to talk.”

_… Shit._

Addison touched her arm. “Do you want me to stay back, too?”

“No, no, it’s okay,” she said, patting her friend’s hand. “You go on ahead. Don’t be late for your bus. I know you’ve been looking forward to seeing your mom.”

Addison grinned. “I’ll text you when I get there.”

“The least you can do,” she teased.

Addison’s smile waned. “Are you sure you’ll be okay on campus for the weekend? My mom said it would be no trouble at all for you to visit.”

She shook her head. “Oh, no, I’ll be fine. With almost everyone going away for the long weekend, I’m going to indulge in using up all the hot water. Maybe even sit at the good table in the coffee shop. Wild stuff like that. Thank you, though.”

“Well, then,” Addison said, smile returning full-force, “I’ll be on my way. Good luck! Hope you don’t get into too much trouble.”

She stood up and stretched her arms over her head. “Don’t worry about little ol’ me. I know how to deal with him.”

Addison nodded and took her leave, one of the last of the classmates to exit the hall. Gathering up the rest of her things, Margot stuffed them into her tote bag and made her way up to the professor’s desk, where he was busy rifling through his own bag and muttering to himself.

“Just one second,” he said, placing a few handfuls of odds and ends from the depths of his bag on the table.

She nodded, more fascinated by the things that he seemingly carried around with him. Of the many things on his desk, she noted a mini Rubik’s cube, a slip of paper with very faded ink that might have been a receipt or a movie ticket once, a cellophane-wrapped green-and-white mint, three expensive-looking pens of various colours and sizes, and a tube of plain blue Nivea lip balm, identical to the one she had in her purse at that very moment. While the label on hers had faded from usage and being flung around inside her bag, his looked brand new.

After brushing those items back into his bag, he placed a stack of papers on the desktop. Among them, a bright slip of paper poked out, much smaller than the rest, and made of a thicker, textured material. Curious, she pulled it out until she could read the tiny lettering.

_5th Annual Los Angeles Charity Masquerade. Admit one (1). $250 admission not including fees/taxes._

She’d never been to a masquerade. She imagined they were just like that scene in Labyrinth, with David Bowie and Jennifer Connelly spinning around the room, surrounded by people in grotesque masks that partly concealed their identities. Big poufy dresses and suits with coattails. Drapery and curtains and mirrors. But an LA soiree version of one probably meant champagne by the bucketful and crudités carried around by masked waiters. Perhaps live music, performed by musicians forced into formal wear, and maybe they were even masked as well. Was everyone there, guest or not, required to wear one? Were masquerades that strict? Do people who wear glasses have to-

 _You’re getting distracted,_ she told herself.

“A masquerade ball, huh? That sounds romantic.” She leaned against the desk, smirking at him. “And here I thought you were completely against the concept of romance.”

“Only someone delusional looks for love at a charity masquerade ball,” he replied scathingly. “It’s a charity event and an obligation. I’m expected to attend, but there’ll be no one worth talking to. As usual.”

“No date, huh?”

His eyes narrowed. “A date would require me to spend the entire evening there. I can’t imagine anything worse. I’ll be leaving as soon as I’ve made my donation to the cause. But I didn’t call you up here to discuss my social calendar, Miss Schuyler. I wanted to talk about your behaviour in class. I thought, after seeing nearly all of your classmates get removed from the hall, you’d know better than to provoke me. I want to make it absolutely clear to you that it is unacceptable to disrupt my lecture. Save your chit chat for your own time, understand?”

She swallowed hard, feeling heat on her cheeks from his gaze. “Yes, Professor.”

He nodded once. “Good. You may go.”

As she left the hall, phone in hand, her heart was thumping in her chest from excitement. But not from the weekend finally starting.

She’d never been to a masquerade, after all.

* * *

But first, she’d need a dress. And shoes.

Without her stellar roommate and fashionista friend by her side, she felt entirely overwhelmed as she flipped through the overflowing closet Addi had insisted she make use of. Though she hadn’t told her the whole truth – just that she was attending an event that required formal wear – Addi had been thrilled to break up the boring bus ride with some advice.

“Not too much cleavage,” Addison said, her voice tinny through the phone speaker. “And not short, either. Knee-length or longer.”

“Do you think I’ll need gloves?” she asked. “Like Cinderella?”

Addison hummed. “Maybe. Pack a pair of elbow length white gloves in your bag, just in case. Oh my gosh. What bag are you bringing? It cannot clash. You hear me? Cannot.”

“Addi, I don’t even know what dress I’m wearing.” Margot frowned at her phone, balanced atop a stack of textbooks on her vanity. “I’m standing here in my underwear trying to figure this out. I’m pre-bibbidi-bobbidi-boo here.”

Addison’s laughter rang out of the speaker.

“I’m serious, Addi. Maybe I shouldn’t go.” She bit her lip, thinking of the money she’d spent on a ticket, money that might’ve been better spent. She was lucky that there were even tickets available. But that was beside the point. “Maybe this is a bad idea.”

“What’s a bad idea? Having a good time? Attending a charity event? Making career-defining connections? Come on.” Addison giggled. “Maybe you’ll even meet the love of your life there.”

“Right.” She flipped through the racks, eager to find something, anything … and then she saw it. A strapless, silvery blue ball gown, tight at the top but not overly cleavage-baring, that flared out at the waist to a full, silky skirt that would definitely conceal whatever shoes she would wear. She pulled it out of the closet and unzipped the clear garment bag to admire it. It was a princess dress if she ever saw one. Turning back to the phone, she quickly requested the voice call turn to a video.

Seconds later, Addison’s tired faced filled the screen. “What is it?”

Brandishing the dress out with a flourish, she ignored that she was standing in little more than a bra and panties as she showed the dress for her friend’s approval.

The gasp she heard confirmed her selection.

“You’ll be so stunning! A real-life Cinderella,” Addison said.

“Yeah,” she said absentmindedly, running her hand over the smooth fabric, already envisioning the makeup look she’d pair with the outfit.

“Except-” Addison narrowed her eyes in her best stern Hunt impression. “If you lose one of my shoes, it would be best to leave the country.”

* * *

Her taxi finally reached the front of the line, and a footman waiting on the sidewalk opened the door for her. She stepped out in her beautiful ball gown, giving the footman a grateful smile as he closed the door after her. Taking her time ascending the steps in her heels, she met another footman at the door who, after looking at her ticket and corroborating it with the guest list on a tablet, handed her a mask with ribbons.

She stepped into the hallway leading to the ballroom and found a mirror where she could put it on. Looking at herself in the mirror, she was more than pleased by her last-minute glow-up. As Addison had her closet, she had her vanity, stuffed to the brim with makeup products that she used to make herself look as chic as possible. After adjusting the mask to fit her face, she smoothed a layer of lip gloss over her lined lips and smiled to herself.

 _With this mask, I could be anyone … well, anyone smokin’ hot, that is_ , she thought.

The ballroom was packed despite its tremendous size. Decorated Regency-style, it dripped with decadence, glass, and shine. Gold chandeliers tipped with crystals dangled from ceilings with painted murals, and tables spilled over with decadent food and sparkling drinks in crystal flutes. Famous actors and big names in the industry, though shrouded by masks of varying hues and designs, gossiped at the edges of the room, while couples danced and twirled on the floor. As she envisioned, masked waiters masterfully navigated the room, offering bite-sized treats that made her mouth water just looking at them.

After making her way around the room, taking in the splendor, she came to a stop near a pillar and sighed.

“This is incredible,” Margot said aloud.

“Isn’t it?”

She turned her head, surprised to see a man with a dark blue mask eyeing her from where he sat by the nearby bar.

“Come sit with me and let’s talk about it,” he said. The invitation, though innocuous in its wording, made her uncomfortable.

“Um,” she said. Her mind, which was usually buzzing with quips, did not offer her an out.

“Don’t be shy, baby,” he pressed, voice a little too firm and sharp for her liking. “I won’t bite. Come here.”

She swallowed hard at his leery gaze, suddenly feeling very vulnerable. “I-”

And then she felt it, a hand circling around her elbow, and she was not alone. She tilted her head up to appraise her saviour, who was looking down at her with a smile. Her saviour, tall and silver-masked, looked and spoke to her as if he knew her.

“There you are.” He led her to the other side of the bar, all the while chattering loudly as though they had come together. “Nearly lost you in this crowd.”

She knew that voice. Knew it quite well, in fact. She’d heard it in lecture halls, offices, in her nightmares and dreams, and in places unexpected.

This was one of the latter now.

He gestured to a pair of empty seats, and she gratefully took one. As soon as she was comfortable, he turned his head to look over at where that man who had been speaking at her sat. Then, he leaned against the bar, standing over the other empty seat, and picked up a half-empty glass, presumably abandoned by him when he came to her rescue.

“You should be careful,” he said sternly.

For a moment, she thought he recognized her, and she prepared for the lecture that would undoubtedly come.

“Even charity events attract the lecherous,” he continued. “You’re very welcome, by the way.” A smirk played on his lips before he took a sip of his drink.

“Thanks,” she said, for she had no clue what else to say.

He nodded once. “Do be careful with yourself. You’re bound to attract some unwanted attention. It would do you well to keep your head clear so that you may avoid future encounters. You can’t expect someone to come to your rescue every single time.”

“Nor do I expect rescue at all,” she replied. “I am no damsel in distress. Though, I guess, I kind of was for a second there, huh.”

He laughed. It wasn’t sarcastic or mocking. A genuine laugh that made him tilt his head back ever so slightly. She’d never heard him laugh like that before, but now that she had a taste, she wanted to hear it again and again. It was so unlike him, the caustic and cold professor she knew. It made him even more attractive.

“At least you’re honest.” He tilted his head at her. “I prefer to be honest.”

“I like that.” Sitting up a little straighter, Margot added, “Honesty’s refreshing. One thing I’ve learned since I’ve been here, in Hollywood I mean, is that too many people are willing to lie to your face or cheat to get ahead.”

He glanced at his watch. “Is that so?” He killed his drink and then levelled his gaze with hers. “And you’re not one of them?”

“No,” she said, then thought better of it. “Not yet, at least. Not if I can help it.”

“So, you want to get ahead.” He finally lowered himself into the seat beside hers.

He gestured to the bartender for a refill, and she took the opportunity to order herself a drink. The bartender nodded at them and turned away.

“I want to be a household name. A famous actress.”

He leaned forward, close to her. “Here’s some more truth for you … everyone here wants to be something. But not everyone here is going to succeed.”

Stubbornly, she said, “I will.”

“You’re brash, naive, and overly confident. I used to be that way, before…” His smirk waned, then disappeared altogether. It was clear he was not mentally in this room anymore.

She wondered what he was thinking about.

The bartender slid his scotch refill to him, then delicately placed her drink on a coaster in front of her. He picked up his glass and took a rather large gulp.

“… Ahem. Excuse me. I’m Thomas. And you are?”

 _Honesty’s refreshing_ , she had said just moments earlier. _Too many people are willing to lie to get ahead._

She truly didn’t want to lie to him, not now. But she also sensed that revealing herself now would mean that she wouldn’t get to keep talking to him like this or hear that laugh.

And, honestly, what good would come out of angering him after he’d been so kind to her?

“Someone who doesn’t like to reveal all her secrets.” She smiled coyly, taking a sip from the paper straw in her drink. “It’s a masquerade ball, after all.”

His eyebrows furrowed. “You don’t have to be so coy. I don’t need a name to figure out who you are. Or anyone in this room, for that matter.” Turning so that he could assess the crowd around them, he nodded towards different masked guests. “Timothee Chalamet; his hair is distinctive, as is his stature. Charlize Theron; note the regal way she carries herself, much like several of her most notable characters. Adam Driver; tall, kind of awkward gait, a low voice that carries over the crowd.”

“Very impressive, Thomas,” she said, trying out his name on her tongue. It was sort of strange to refer to him so casually, but she’d have to adapt if she wanted to keep this going on.

He took another sip, clearly pleased to be right. “Told you, didn’t I?”

Though she enjoyed the game they were playing, she decided to really test him. “Here’s a harder challenge: do you know who I am?”

He hummed thoughtfully. “I’ve been wondering that the moment you arrived. Something about you is familiar, almost loathsome, yet at the same time, forgive me, attractive.” He tilted his head. “You’re not going to tell me who you are, are you?”

Though her heart was pounding, she kept it cool. “Maybe at the end of the night. Unless you’re planning on leaving early. Are you?”

“No.” He broke eye contact with her long enough to get the bartender’s attention, and he gestured for another refill. “No, I’m not.”

* * *

At some point, in the midst of their conversation, the music had noticeably gone softer and slower. He finished his drink and sighed, placing the glass onto the countertop, but just as he was about to request another refill, she captured his attention with a hand on his arm.

“We should dance,” Margot said, springing out of her seat. “Care to join me?”

He hesitated, and her glossed lips pouted.

Then, slowly, he rose from his seat, all the while maintaining eye contact with her. He straightened his tie and gave her a smirk.

“Do try to keep up,” he teased, buttoning his suit jacket before offering her his arm. They slipped through the crowd, the guests not dancing parting for them as easily as water. As soon as they reached the dance floor, he took the lead, taking her in his arms and guiding her. She was slow, cautious. He watched her fight her instinct to look at their feet.

“If you’re nervous, this dance will be over before it even begins,” he warned, though his grip on her tightened.

She pulled him closer, emboldened by the drink in her system and the fact that he didn’t know who she was, and smiled up at him.

“Do I seem nervous, Thomas?” she asked.

He smiled. “Not at all. I’m surprised. You’re not completely horrible at this.”

She batted her eyelashes. “You say such charming things.”

They both laughed as he whirled her around the room.

* * *

She didn’t know how long they’d been dancing for, but she knew they were being watched. The crowd of dancers had thinned considerably since they had first arrived on the dance floor, and now many spectators lined the floor, watching with increasing interest as she and her partner weaved around the other dancers, doing increasingly interesting moves at his lead.

Her heart was pounding, the music was building to a crescendo, and he spun her around the dance floor faster and faster.

 _Don’t puke_ , she told herself. _Do not do it. Your reputation will not recover. Not with whoever’s in attendance, and certainly not with Thomas._

His voice came from somewhere to her right. “Keep to my tempo, or you’ll fall behind.”

He spun her out and away from him.

The world beyond the dance floor seemed as if was moving in slow motion, while she was stuck on fast-forward. She felt like she was one of the fairy toys that spun around and around in the air, aimless and free, before meeting a wall or piece of furniture and clattering to the floor. She braced herself for impact.

But then her hands connected with his again, and the crowd that had gathered to watch the dancers applauded as he pulled her back into his embrace.

“You learn quickly. I wish you were one of my students,” he whispered in her ear.

Her stomach, which had felt so light just moments before, now felt heavy and twisted.

“You’re a teacher,” she said. It wasn’t a question.

He nodded. “I teach at a local university.”

“How … nice.” It was the best she could come up with at the moment.

* * *

After she had become too dizzy from the spinning, he escorted her off the dance floor with an amused smile. He led her through the ballroom and out onto a private balcony cordoned off by a thick dark velvet curtain. Taking her hand, they stepped closer to the railing, into the cool evening air.

After giving her a long look, he let go of her hand and slowly removed his mask. The silver-lined blue barrier fell away to reveal him. He looked even more handsome up close, with a shy smile on his lips and the bright light from a single lantern hanging above them illuminating his debonair features.

“Disappointed?” he asked.

She took a deep breath, stunned by seeing him so unguarded, and even more handsome up close. “Not at all.”

The ocean waves below were muted by her heartbeat. Above them, she noted the sun setting, the sky becoming an ombre canvas of oranges, reds, and pinks. It was truly a stunning sight, but her gaze kept coming back to him. Still smiling, he reached out and took her hands in his.

His voice was husky, low. “You are definitely the best part of the night. I wasn’t expecting to meet someone like you. I can sense something about you, a connection … I never thought I’d feel this strongly about someone I just met, but I can’t seem to stop myself.”

She felt as though she was not breathing. As if she might never breathe again.

Moving even closer, he circled his arms around her waist, tilted her head up, and leaned in, eyes closing just before they made contact.

She was surprised by how sweetly he kissed her, how delicately he held her, as though she would slip away in the faintest breeze. His arms tightened around her waist, pulling her closer to him until they were nearly inseparable. She thought she could hear fireworks somewhere, and wondered if she was only imagining them, but when they finally pulled back from the kiss, she saw flashes of colour illuminating his face in vibrant hues.

“Thomas,” she said breathlessly.

And then his mouth was on hers again, pulling her closer still, until his back was against the wall, and her hand was on the back of his neck, holding him to her. She felt his fingers on her back, just above the silk of the strapless dress, and she shivered and pressed herself tighter to him.

“ _Please_ ,” he whispered raggedly once they separated again. “I have to know who you are.”

Margot stilled.

He reached around her and began tugging on the ribbons of her mask. She watched him closely, letting him untie the knots, savouring what very well may be the last moment she would have with him like this. 

The mask fell away from her face, and she watched him recognize her, watched his eyes widen and face twist in betrayal and anger before he stepped back and pressed a hand against his mouth in horror. Her blood ran cold as his eyes narrowed and his expression hardened to one of complete disdain.

“Margot? How - how _dare_ you?” he gasped. “You – you – I cannot believe this! You lied to me! You deceived me! You _seduced_ me! How could you?”

His rejection, though expected, pained her in ways she couldn’t even describe. As though his words were branding irons, burning his hatred into her flesh.

“You’re the _last_ person I wanted to see behind that mask,” he spat. “ _You_ , of all the people in the world.”

He kept hurting her, hurting her, like he didn’t care. And perhaps he didn’t, now that he knew the truth.

“I can’t believe I - Dear God, I kissed a _student_.” He leaned back against the wall, forcing himself to take deep breaths to keep himself steady.

Tears slid down her cheeks as she watched him denounce her in every way possible. Even though he’d bragged about being able to identify anyone, he didn’t expect her, didn’t even cross his mind to guess her, and for some reason it hurt her more than anything else.

“Some part of you might’ve known it was me,” she said indignantly. “You were _bragging_ that you-”

He let out a caustic laugh at that. “Why would I want you to be someone I despise? Someone I don’t _respect_? I’m disgusted with you and myself.”

And that was all she needed to hear.

Pushing past him, she covered her face – and the tears streaking down them – as she rushed out of the gala and into the night.

* * *

The taxi ride back to the dorms was awkward, mostly because she spent the entire ride sniffling, trying to hold back her tears, and using up the Kleenex the driver kept a box of by the rear windshield. After tipping him, she sprung out of the taxi and didn’t stop running until she was safely back in her room.

It was there that Margot allowed herself to fully break down. In that beautiful princess dress, she flopped onto her bed and sobbed, hugging herself tightly, letting out all the anger and frustration and pain that she felt at being so heavily and heartlessly rejected by him. She cried for the way he looked at her. Sobbed at the beautiful moments they shared that were now tainted by the conclusion of the night. She ached for what could have been and wept for her naivete.

A part of her knew that there was no way anything could’ve come from it. But she’d let herself fall into the fairy tale, accepting him as her stand-in prince for the evening, and felt charmed by their conversing, their somewhat playful banter, and the compatibility in their dancing skills. And the kisses they shared …

Though her chest and throat ached from crying, if she closed her eyes tight enough, she could still feel his mouth against hers, languid and sweet in its kiss.

There was something there. She knew it.

It hurt her to know that, even if he sensed something too, he would never acknowledge it.

* * *

Twenty minutes away from the Hollywood U dorms, Thomas Hunt sat on his bed, still in his suit from the masquerade, drinking scotch straight from the bottle. Two pairs of masks lay beside him, one slightly more rumpled than the other from its owner stepping on it as she ran from the private balcony.

Setting the bottle down on the bedside table, he took a deep breath and closed his eyes, forcing himself to think back to the beginning of it all, pushing past the haze the alcohol left in his head.

_He’d spotted her the moment she walked in and had kept an eye on her since she began making her way around the ballroom. And, from the sounds of the men sitting close by him, he was not the only one who had noticed her._

_The dress she wore made her ethereal, like she’d stepped out of a dream. The shiny silk that hugged her frame before flowing to the floor, coupled with her demure yet entrancing makeup and the awed look in her eyes from behind her mask, set her apart from the rest._

_He took a large gulp of his drink and loosened his tie._

_She got closer, and one of the wolves made their move._

_As if by an unknown force pulling him forward, he found himself walking up to her, his mind struggling to catch up with his actions as he offered her a way out of the clearly unwanted interaction._

_“There you are.” He led her to the seat he had previously occupied and was pleased to find that one of the men had taken flight upon seeing them interact. She sat down and looked up at him curiously, as if wondering why he had saved her from being potentially preyed upon._

_“You should be careful,” he said. “Even charity events attract the lecherous. You’re very welcome, by the way.”_

_“Thanks.”_

_He knew that voice. The sincerity of the gratitude, tinged with sarcasm at having to reply at all._

_She seemed not to have recognized him. He wondered how long it would be before she did. Though the mask concealed some of her features, with his close proximity he was quick to identify her by other things that gave her away, like her high cheekbones and dark tresses she’d pulled into a half-up hairdo and, now, her distinctive voice._

_He felt tempted to call her out on it and send her on her way home, but at the same time, he wanted to know where this would go. Revealing what he knew would mean that he wouldn’t get to keep talking to her like this._

_And it was a masquerade ball, after all._


	2. 2. where are you now when i need you most

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You heard that.”  
> “There’s not much else to listen to.”

* * *

Crew members wrapping for the day spilled out of the open-doored set of Love is Everywhere when she arrived. In lieu of the typical mid-morning lecture for Hollywood 101, the professor had arranged for a special off-campus field trip that evening to a studio warehouse for a tour with one of the producers. When he had announced it, Professor Hunt had emphasized the importance of arriving on time with a particularly snide side-eye at her, so to play it safe, she had shown up even earlier than he had asked of the class. Finding the doorway he had specified for them to wait nearby, she leaned against the adjacent wall, glanced at the time on her phone, and let out a heavy sigh.

It had been weeks since the masquerade, and that side-eye had been the only time he had dared to acknowledge her existence. But, to be fair, she hadn’t given him much to work with; her proclivity for exchanging quick-witted barbs and snark with him had all but vanished, something that had all her friends, but especially Addison, worried.

Margot’s phone rang, making her jump, the sudden movement startling one of the people exiting the warehouse with a big roll of fabric in their arms. Mouthing apologies, she rounded the corner and put the phone to her ear.

“Keep your phone on you,” Ethan Blake instructed. She could tell without seeing him that he was in full agent mode – his professional voice was different than his speaking voice – so she bit her tongue from making a sarcastic remark. “This is going to be huge. _Huge_.”

“What is?” she asked.

Ethan sounded like he was smiling, which made his professional voice sound a little less so. “That tape you sent in a few weeks ago has captured the attentions of a certain rising director and his casting director currently looking to hire for a highly anticipated art house horror film.”

Her heart leapt in her throat. “Ethan.”

“I know. Keep your phone on you,” he said. “Even if you have to wrestle with alligators, even if you have to punch Masika in the face, whatever it takes, just keep that phone on you. This could be It. The golden egg. The golden goose. The-”

“Have you been watching Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory _again_?”

Her agent’s voice went from professional to sheepish. “Perhaps.” He cleared his throat. “I’ll take no more of your time. Keep that phone on and on you. Call me as soon as you hear anything. And I mean _anything_.”

Once she hung up, she headed back to the doorway to find a handful of her classmates idling around. Beside the doorway, the professor and a man, presumably the producer giving the tour, stood. The man, upon seeing her, held out a light brown wicker basket.

“No phones allowed on set,” he called out.

Her eyes flickered to Professor Hunt’s, who immediately focused his attention elsewhere.

Subtle.

“Actually, I have a call I’m waiting for,” she said. “It’s really urgent. Would you mind if-”

“No exceptions,” Professor Hunt emphasized. “Phone. Now.”

Margot shook her head. “I may be getting a job offer. I’m sorry, but I can’t.”

This piqued the producer’s interest. Lowering the basket to his side, he asked, “May I ask what offer you might be receiving?”

She felt Professor Hunt’s gaze burning a hole in her forehead, but she kept her attention firmly on the producer. She was not unaware that her classmates had begun listening in, apparently eager to see if she would finally stir the pot after weeks of being curiously silent.

“With all due respect, sir, I’d rather not disclose that information just yet. Don’t want to count my chickens before they hatch,” she said.

The producer looked her over for a moment. “Understandable. Just keep your phone on vibrate, and step away from the group if that call comes, okay?”

She nodded.

Turning away, she made a point to immerse herself within the growing crowd of classmates gathered by the door a little way from the two older men. Addison and a few other people whose varying projects she had helped with immediately absorbed her into their conversations.

* * *

At precisely six p.m., the professor stepped before the doorway and clapped his hands once. That was all he had to do to command their attention. All conversations ceased and the class – minus a handful of students who would be dealt with later – focused on their stern professor and his producer friend.

“Listen up, everyone. We’re fortunate the producer, Jaxson Mitchell, is giving us this opportunity. That means you will behave in a way that reflects well on the university, no exceptions.”

Margot felt his gaze burning another hole in her forehead.

The tour began earnestly, with Jaxson taking the class through several of the smaller sets that had been erected in the studio warehouse for use within the next few days. Some of the sets looked like showcase rooms in furniture stores, but with a wall missing for viewing purposes. A few of the sets, like the ornate dining room that was to be used for an important monologue, were completely enclosed for the night, and they were allowed a brief peek into them before moving on.

She was keenly aware of her phone waiting in her pocket, silent and intimidating. Though she was enjoying the tour and the amusing anecdotes that Jaxson shared, she was desperately willing for the phone to ring.

“Here’s part of the ballroom set. We’re still working on it, but as you can see, its marble pillars and glazed tile flooring will help add a sense of extravagance to the climactic scene we’ll be filming in here,” Jaxson explained.

She looked at the ballroom set and felt her stomach twist. It was beautiful, albeit unfurnished and unfinished, and it reminded her far too much of the night she was hoping not to think of.

She didn’t dare glance up to Hunt to see if he was having any similar reaction to the ballroom set. He probably was as unaffected as usual.

At long last, the tour came to a close. As they all gathered by the doorway from which they had entered, Jaxson weaved through the class, handing back the phones. Once reunited, Jenni Whitman gave hers a kiss on the back of her glittery phone case. She chuckled to herself, then felt her whole body freeze up at the feeling of her phone vibrating urgently in her dress pocket.

_Oh my God._

_Oh my God!_

Stepping back into the warehouse, away from the din of chattering classmates, she clapped one hand over her free ear and answered her phone. “Hello?”

* * *

As he ticked off the attendance sheet on the clipboard in his hand, Professor Hunt tutted under his breath at the names of the no-shows who would be getting a very stern warning from him in the near future. Bianca Stone, of course, was one of them, but her father kept so many people in his pocket that any misconduct she did was waved off with little more than a slap on the wrist and, at worse, a ten-page essay that was more of a punishment for him to read and mark than it was for her to write (and he suspected it wasn’t even her writing it).

“What a nice bunch of students you have, Tommy,” Jaxson said, coming to stand beside him. “So polite. I can’t say I approve of how . . . _attached_ some of them are to their devices, but that can’t be helped, eh?”

“Oh, Miss Whitman has a serious problem,” he said, setting the clipboard down. “God forbid she and her purchased social media following be parted for more than an hour.”

Jaxson laughed. “Cold as ever.” He clapped him on the shoulder. “It’s been good seeing you.”

“And you as well. Thank you once again for allowing us onto the set,” Professor Hunt said. “Reminded me of old times.”

Jaxson smirked. “Any chance of there being any ‘new’ times?”

Professor Hunt cocked his head to the side. “I don’t believe so. Too much to critique, so many to teach.”

Jaxson nodded solemnly. Then he lifted his gaze past Hunt and into the warehouse. “Like her, for example.”

Hunt didn’t really need to turn his head to see who Jaxson was talking about, but he did so reflexively.

Miss Schuyler stood further into the hallway separating the sets, her phone clamped to her ear as though it was the only thing providing her life. Her elated expression betrayed her; she was clearly hearing something she liked.

“What’s that smile for?”

Hunt looked at Jaxson. “What?”

“That smile.” Jaxson was genuinely curious. “I’ve not seen a smile on you in ages.”

“You haven’t seen me in ages, either,” Hunt rebutted. “And it wasn’t a smile.”

Jaxson laughed. “It’s okay, Tommy, I get it. It’s exciting, isn’t it?”

“What?”

“Seeing one of your students spread their wings and fly.” Jaxson nudged him. “C’mon, man, don’t tell me you’re not happy for her. She must’ve gotten that offer.”

“She gets a lot of offers,” Hunt said evenly. He wasn’t wrong; within a month of her attending Hollywood U, she had managed to procure key roles for projects with pop star and wild child Lisa Valentine, action film star Chris Winters, and several other celebrities who had all found her work satisfactory or better.

“All the more reason to celebrate,” Jaxson said. “But look, I’ve just got to pop over to my car real quick with some materials, and then I’ll be back to get the doors locked for the night. Do you mind getting your student? I won’t be long; I’ve still got to stop at the grocery store.”

Hunt nodded.

* * *

“Thank you again, Mr. Cattrall. I look forward to working with you. It’s actually somewhat of a career goal for me,” she said. “It’s an honour.”

The velvety voice of the director she would soon be meeting for a table read for his newest film sounded pleased. “Well, then I hope I live up to your expectations.”

Upon hanging up, she felt all feeling returning to her body, beginning from her unwavering, wide smile that was beginning to hurt her cheeks. She felt her heart pounding in her chest, her lungs rapidly filling and emptying, as she looked deep into the warehouse and let out a small burst of laughter at what had just transpired.

She was going to be in a Cattrall. A _Cattrall_! The Spielberg of art house films, he had burst onto the scene with riveting dramas and unsettling experimental horror films and had already won the Cannes Film Festival’s Grand Prix.

And he wanted _her_.

Still numb, but fizzing over with excitement, Margot did a little spin and promptly bumped into another body, which knocked her off-kilter.

“Sorry, I-” She looked up to find the man she had temporarily forgotten about.

_Well, that was a nice five minutes while it lasted_ , she thought.

“Miss Schuyler. While I assume congratulations are in order, I believe we’ll have to make them outside,” Hunt said briskly. “This set is officially closed.”

“Right, sorry,” she said. “It’s just – I’m so _happy_.”

Margot heard herself say it and immediately cringed. It sounded so childish, as if she was amused by everything, like finding a dime on the ground.

“And what exactly has you so happy?” he asked. “A soap opera cameo? Dancer number three in a music video?”

Without thinking, she replied, “I don’t like to reveal all my secrets just yet, _professor_.”

They both froze in place as the memory washed over them, a crashing wave that knocked them both off kilter.

And then he was dragging her by the elbow to the first open doorway he saw on the set, which was, ironically, the ballroom set that had yet to be finished. Before she could open her mouth, he began speaking harshly in low tones.

“That night didn’t happen, do you understand? I’ve already said everything that needs to be said. Our circumstances haven’t changed. _Nothing’s changed_. I don’t know what you think is going to happen, but-”

They both froze again upon hearing the loud screech that interrupted his diatribe. Pushing past her, Hunt stepped away just in time to see the giant doors of the warehouse swing shut.

“Hey! Wait! We’re in here!” she cried from behind him.

* * *

All but running to the door, he pulled at the handle desperately, but the cold metal refused to budge.

“Let us out, you idiot!” Hunt yelled.

But it was no use. Jaxson had swiftly locked up and gone, as quick and precise as he was when he used to work for Hunt. Except, clearly, he didn’t bother to check the set one last time to confirm that absolutely no one was present. He would have to talk to him about that later.

And then Hunt sighed.

No, he wouldn’t, because Jaxson had asked him to get his student out of there. Upon seeing the presumably empty set, he had assumed that the director and his student were well on their way. No fault but his own for pulling them away for privacy.

“Oh, great,” he muttered, turning to lean against the door. “Now I’m stuck with you for who knows how long on the set of this idiotic romance film.”

Petulant as always, Miss Schuyler narrowed her eyes. “There are worse ways to spend a night.”

“I assure you, there are not,” he bit back. “Let’s just find a way out as quickly as possible. I don’t want to have to deal with you.”

Logically, the back of the warehouse would have an emergency exit. With that in mind, he began walking, weaving around miscellaneous props and tables to get as much space between her and him as possible.

From behind him, she called out, “No offense taken, in case you were wondering. Assuming you actually have emotions, or a heart at all.”

_You would know, wouldn’t you?_ he thought bitterly.

* * *

“Unbelievable. This is clearly a fire code violation. I’ll be drafting a strongly-worded email as soon as we get out of here.”

“ _If_ we get out of here.”

“We are not going to die in here. But someone _will_ pay for this.”

The back of the building was glaringly bereft of exits, emergency or otherwise. As soon as Hunt had realized this, he pulled his phone out of his pocket, trying his hardest not to feel panicked at the low percentage of his battery.

Searching through his contacts list, he called Jaxson, but didn’t get an answer. He waited a minute and tried again, but to no avail.

_Hm. Would Marianne still be at Faux Pas?_ he wondered, thinking of his magazine editor friend who was in town overseeing a shoot. _This warehouse would be a bit of a detour from her drive home, but she_ did _say she’d do anything for me._

No answer from her, either.

He huffed.

“No luck, huh?”

He turned to find her sitting on a prop chair, watching him with great interest. He rolled his eyes.

“Just look for a way out,” he snapped.

She stood, brushing off the skirt of her dress. “Prof- Hunt. Can we at least talk to each other like regular people instead of constantly being at each other’s throats? That’s going to get old fast if we’re stuck here for the night.”

He ignored that. “Perhaps there’s a side exit I missed.” He sped up his walking and felt dismayed to hear her shoes clicking against the floor as she followed.

“Who could blame a professor and student for talking when they’re accidentally locked on a set together? And we have to talk about . . . _that night_. Why can’t we?”

“It’s not about blame, it’s just-”

Seeing the handle jutting out from the wall made him feel relieved. But, upon pulling it and having the weak wooden door that had been propped against the wall almost fall on him, he began to lose hope that they weren’t getting out.

“Damn it!” he shouted to the fake door. And then a string of curse words that he usually wouldn’t dare to speak in front of a student, or really outside of his small circle of friends, but he didn’t feel dignified enough to stop himself.

They really were locked in for the night. And of all the rotten luck, it had to be them.

Behind him, she let out a long exhale. Then-

“Are you going to talk to me now?” Miss Schuyler asked.

His jaw clenched. “No. Not about that.”

* * *

The lights shut off ten minutes later.

By then, Hunt had firmly seated himself in a chair by the only doorway, rifling through his contacts list for anyone who might be able to help them on short notice. He had managed to find a signal strong enough to send a few emails, one of which was a particularly strongly-worded note about the warehouse’s glaring lack of emergency exits to Jaxson and several of the studio’s warehouse managers, but as it was well past nine o’clock on a Friday, the chances of anyone answering before sunrise were slim.

In the only other chair they could find, the one she had been perched in earlier, Margot sat shivering in the cold air of the warehouse. She had not dressed like someone who had anticipated such a predicament, with no sweater or jacket to be seen. But she had pride, and she didn’t want to ask for his jacket, nor did she believe he would give it to her.

Her phone stayed in her pocket, brightness cranked to its lowest setting and on battery-saving mode. She was sure he was draining his phone battery with all the calls and emails. She didn’t want them entirely without means to contact anyone, and it seemed pointless to try when his attempts were failing. She silently thanked the universe for letting her have what must have been the last good signal to receive her call from Penn Cattrall.

When they were suddenly thrust into darkness, Hunt let out another swear word, one that made her smile despite herself. It was so strange and alien hearing him swear, like hearing Mr. Rogers or a Sesame Street character cuss out a kid or something.

And then he fell silent, and the whole warehouse was silent, and the shivers running up her spine were not just from the cold.

Margot sniffled. “Hunt?”

No reply.

The sound of shuffling, somewhere a little ways away, or perhaps closer. It was hard to tell.

“Can you say something please?” She hugged herself pathetically, feeling tears spring to her eyes as they failed to adjust to their pitch-black surroundings. “This really sucks.”

More shuffling. The sound of impact. Another swear word, murmured so low she wondered if she had heard him think it.

Then nothing.

The silence stretched on, broken only occasionally by the sound of scratching so faint that she wondered if her mind was making it up.

Tears slid down her cheeks. She was a grown-ass woman, but as the darkness swallowed her up, she felt dizzy, weak, like the child she once was, waiting, waiting . . .

Her stomach rumbled, and she instinctively curled up on the chair, knees to her chin.

_It’s okay_ , she told herself. _He’s still here. Somebody’s still here._

“Please, Thomas,” Margot whispered.

And then a brilliant spark broke through the darkness, living for one beautiful moment before extinguishing on the concrete.

And then another.

And another.

And then-

“Got it.” Hunt’s voice was a balm to her nerves. “Now, where are those candles I saw?” As he rifled around, bumping into things, she squinted at the little flame on the tip of the match he held, desperate to see anything – an eye, a cheekbone, his chin – to confirm that he was really there, and it wasn’t a hallucination. The flame was too small to make out any of his features, but its existence was enough.

She watched from her chair as he touched the flame to the wicks of several jarred candles he managed to find on a nearby table. As the candles began to melt, strong scents began dispersing into the room, clashing with one another in a way that made her feel dizzy, like after passing around one of Crash’s “Satanic cigarettes” after a night on the town. Cinnamon and spice, something tree-like, pumpkin pie . . .

Her stomach growled, loud enough for him to hear.

“Stay there,” he said, picking up one of the smaller candles. In the dim light she could see the sharp shadow of his jawline. “I’ll see if they left any catering.”

“Okay.” Her voice was hoarse.

He seemed to pause then. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, just – let’s hope they have something. I didn’t really eat dinner.” She offered him a smile that was lost to the darkness.

She heard his footsteps recede, and his dim light faded into the darkness. Once she felt she was alone, she rested her chin on her knees again, squeezing her eyes shut as a few more tears pricked at them.

_It’s okay. He’s still here. Somebody’s still here._

_You’re not alone._

Margot took a deep breath of pine and citrus air and repeated it to herself until she heard his return.

* * *

He had never sworn so much in one night.

As his hip met the jutting corner of a table, Hunt found himself directing his exclamation of pain to the floor. Gasping, he leaned against the table for a moment to breathe and mutter a few more curses before continuing on his venture into the blackness.

All sense of dignity and professionalism had gone once that stupid fake door had almost knocked him down, and once the power went out, he felt his sanity slipping away like granules of sand through a sieve.

That is, until he heard her cry.

How weak Miss Schuyler’s voice had sounded, speaking desperately into the darkness as though he had somehow disappeared into it, leaving her beside herself, cold and scared. He had briefly considered giving her the silent treatment, but upon hearing that, he had shrugged off his jacket and was prepared to make the potentially treacherous journey of heading over to her chair to give it to her when his mind cried out to him, reminding him of the box of matches he’d confiscated from Spencer Yamaguchi a day earlier. What that boy, aptly nicknamed Crash, had planned with those matches, he did not know. But now, as he strained to remember where he had seen those obnoxious scented candles in the warehouse during the tour, he was grateful for the stunt major and his affinity for having campus contraband on hand.

He pulled the matchbox out and began striking the matches. The first few gave him no flame, and he wondered if perhaps he had confiscated a matchbox prop.

But then he heard it.

“Please, Thomas.”

The sniffle that accompanied those words conjured up a painful image that had seared itself into his memory. A woman in a beautiful blue gown standing before him, the glimmering night sky a backdrop to the tears sliding down her face, cowering as he yelled at her for deceiving him, for making him enjoy a night with her, for making him _feel_.

He didn’t like feeling. Didn’t like when other people made him feel. Only a few had been able to, but he had let them, because he-

_Don’t think about that_ , he reminded himself.

He struck the next match with vigor, and the small flame that burst from it made his heart soar, even as it extinguished itself almost immediately. He let it drop and pulled another out.

Hunt shook his head as his next attempt also puttered out quickly. What kind of weak matches are these?

He worked through a few more matches, lighting them for seconds before they went out, until . . .

“Got it.”

Now he was on another search, this time for a crumb of food to feed the hungry woman he was unexpectedly stuck with for the time being. And, as he bashed his knees and hips against props and furniture that seemed to move directly into his path, he prayed that he would find something that would sustain her for the evening.

The mini fridge he found had a few large glass bottles of . . . something. Assuming they were not alcoholic – though, since this warehouse neglected to have an emergency exit, he couldn’t entirely rule out other blatant violations - he took them out and replaced them with a five-dollar bill from his wallet, hoping that whoever owned those drinks wouldn’t mind.

And then he felt his way around nearby until he nearly upturned a fruit bowl and took the lone banana within it. A paper plate close to the fruit bowl teetered over the edge of the table, but he set down his candle to catch it. Two slightly stale blueberry bagels and a few little packets of room-temperature cream cheese spread. More than he had expected to find.

He took great caution in maneuvering around the furniture he’d knocked into, but he still caught himself a few times on the hip. He had a death grip on the candle, the food plate held close to his chest. He hadn’t found utensils but was more grateful to have found anything at all.

As he neared the light emanating from the candles on the table, he heard her whispering. He didn’t have to strain his ears to hear her.

“He’s still here. Somebody’s still here.”

He set his candle down and she let out a yelp.

Pretending as though he hadn’t heard anything, he laid out the food on the table so she could see it. “I found some bagels and drinks. And a banana.”

Miss Schuyler emerged slowly from the darkness, barely illuminated from the dancing candle flames. Dragging her chair closer to the table, she sat and twisted the cap off one of the bottles. Her eyes met his as she took a long sip. Finally, she set the bottle down.

“Snapple.”

His eyebrows furrowed. “Excuse me?”

“Half and half. Half iced tea, half lemonade.”

“Oh.”

She pulled apart one of the bagels and ripped one of the cream cheese packets open before turning back to him.

“Are you coming to eat or what?” she asked.

For a moment, there was silence again, but then the screeching of chair legs against concrete made her wince. And then he was in view, sitting close – but not as close as he had weeks earlier – and unpeeling the banana enough to break it in half and take the top piece.

“The rest is for you,” he said. “I had the foresight to eat dinner.”

“Lucky you,” she drawled.

He sighed.

“Are we going to talk now?” she asked. She sounded defeated, already knowing the answer.

But they were the only ones stuck in that warehouse for the night. Just him and her, and no one would blame them for talking. Just himself, but he knew her well enough that she wouldn’t usually let up so easily. Something was wrong.

“About the masquerade? I suppose we could.” He chose his next words carefully. “As long as we talk about what happened a little while ago. When you were crying.”

“You heard that.”

“There’s not much else to listen to.”

She sighed, swallowing a bite of banana. “I would say ‘don’t feel sorry for me,’ but I already know that’s not going to be a problem.”

* * *

_“I’ll be right back. I promise.”_

_She had always been afraid of the dark, but her parents were determined to rid her of that fear. When her Dora the Explorer nightlight broke, her father refused to repair it. Her mother caved and bought her a new one, but only let her plug it in on school nights. For two terrifying nights of the week, she huddled under her covers, armed with her favourite stuffed animals and a flashlight she borrowed from the clutter drawer in the kitchen._

_Once, when Margot was really afraid, and the world outside her window was dark and storming, her mother taught her how to pretend she was somewhere else. The sky was falling, but in her head, the sun bore down, warming her skin, the crashing waves of the beach they’d visited the day her father left disguising the thunder that shook the windows._

_Later, her mother taught her how to pretend to be someone else, too. They were in a car, and her mother had put an itchy thing on her head made of hair the colour of straw. As she braided the dry strands, she wove a backstory for the new person she would play, a young girl off to see her grandmother for the weekend with her mother, and fed her lines to repeat to the border patrol officer._

_“Can you do that for me, sweet pea?”_

_When the officer asked her questions, she parroted the responses with as much enthusiasm as a tired seven-year-old could muster when she was cranky from being in the car too long. The officer let the car through, and her mother rewarded her with an entire kid’s meal to herself. A few hours later, her mother chucked her free toy out the window for being too noisy._

_The little house they moved into was really one room with plastic curtains separating the bathroom from the kitchen and the bedroom. They had to share the bed, but her mother let her keep the nightlight on._

_It wasn’t working. Neither did the light switch, which was supposed to tell the eclectrickle creature in the ceiling to brighten up the bare bulb in the ceiling. There was no space for a clutter drawer in their kitchen, so she didn’t know where she would find a flashlight, or if they even had one._

_The world outside the window was blotted out by the darkness, and with nothing to break through it, she felt achingly alone. No stuffed animals to snuggle, no covers to protect her from the cold. No mother to run to._

_She’ll be back. She promised._

_Every time she woke up after slipping into a sleep, she was alone, lying on her side on the barren mattress. No sign of her mother returning yet. She passed the time by counting the popcorn bumps on the ceiling and the ants gathering crumbs from the floor and slipping through the crack on the windowsill. But she didn’t keep count of the days passing. It really felt like one big endless one._

_Eventually, a neighbour lady came knocking. She didn’t like that her mother hadn’t come back yet. Other people showed up, men and women with water and fruit and cookies for her. Just like Miss Peaches, they had a weird look on their face when she told them about her mother’s promise._

_Miss Peaches gave her a room of her own, a bed piled high with stuffed animals, and all the food she could cram into her mouth. After many attempts at soothing her in the middle of the night, Miss Peaches gifted her a beautiful lamp that emanated a gentle glow. When she curled up in bed, she thought of the beach again, of her mother holding the hand of a girl with straw hair._

_Pretending came to her as easily as breathing._

* * *

“What happened to her?”

“My mother? I haven’t seen her since.”

He swore. “What about your neighbour?”

She kept her gaze focused squarely on her knees. “Miss Peaches died a few weeks before I came here.”

It sucked, losing a maternal figure twice. She really had grown to like her, even if the first year was rocky because she was still adamantly waiting. Miss Peaches had been the one to encourage her into acting and had cheered her on for the few roles she had in high school plays. When she got accepted into Hollywood U, she promised to be there for her first ever movie premiere, walking the carpet as her companion.

Another promise broken.

Hunt let out a heavy sigh. “You’ve been through it, huh.”

“And still going through it, clearly.” She chuckled to hide the sniffles. “Not a fan of the dark, obviously.”

“It should be afraid of you,” he murmured.

As weird a statement as that was, she felt the laughter bubbling from her belly. Looking up at him, her face split into a huge smile as she let herself laugh.

“What an idea. The dark being afraid of a person. I’ll have to run that by Cattrall. If anyone could pull it off, it’s him.”

“Penn Cattrall?” Hunt said. “The director?”

She nodded. “The phone call earlier. He wants me to be the lead in his next film.”

_“Penn Cattrall_?” Hunt repeated.

And just like that, any good mood she had dissipated. “Yes, _the_ Penn Cattrall. Why does that surprise you so much? You’ve been monitoring my progress at Hollywood U, haven’t you? Seen all the projects I’ve contributed to? I’ve earned this and you know it.”

Silence.

Of course.

She turned her attention back to the Snapple. It must be the unsweetened kind, she mused, because the taste was slightly bland and-

“I know you have.”

Slowly, she looked back up. Hunt’s face was hard to read in the darkness, but she assumed he must’ve pulled his mouth into a grimace, like he always did once he said something he thought he shouldn’t have. She strained to see it on him now.

“Since you came to Hollywood University, you have been extraordinarily prolific with your projects. Though, obviously, you had to be in order to stay enrolled after the tiff you had with Miss Stone-”

“Her _false_ accusation, you mean?”

He brushed off her interjection. “-That _incident_ helped accelerate your career in ways that your fellow students only dream of. You’ve amassed an impressive catalogue, and your growth, both professionally and personally, is palpable with every credit.”

Though her cheeks warmed with his unexpected kindness, she sensed a “but” coming up.

“But,” he said, then paused thoughtfully. “You’ve got a long way to go still. A lot more to learn. Things you need to know to make sure your career has longevity and meaning. I have so much more to teach you.”

Her heart twisted.

“My place is behind the lectern, guiding you. Not . . . whatever it is that you think you want from me.”

The second part of his statement should have bothered her more than the first.

“No, it’s not.” She set the glass bottle on the table and straightened in her seat. “Your place is behind the camera. It’s what you were meant to do, it’s your passion!” She squinted at him. “I don’t understand why you retired. You were one of the greats. _Are_ one of the greats, I mean.”

Hunt exhaled, a sound bordering on sadness. “Some things cannot be,” he said cryptically.

And then he stood, picked up his candle, and disappeared again into the labyrinthine set.

* * *

He just knew the heart-shaped bed in the honeymoon suite set was a middle finger from the universe. Gaudy and overloaded with the cliché colour scheme of nauseating reds and pinks, the sheets were slippery silk and the pillows were fluffy from lack of use. He set his candle on the end table and pulled off his suit jacket, before remembering that he had meant to give it to her earlier.

He could practically hear Priya scoffing at him. “You’ve gone soft,” she had accused him, his office suddenly too small to have such clashing egos within it. He had denied it then, but now . . .

“So I tell you about my whole thing with the dark, and you leave me in it again?”

He winced at Margot’s harsh tone. “I was just-”

Standing in the doorway, she set down her own candle and crossed her arms over her stomach.

“And here I thought we were actually getting to know each other. We weren’t done talking. You said we could talk about-”

“We did talk about-”

“No, we didn’t!” She stepped forward, closer. “I _know_ you feel something for me. And before you say anything, remember we’re not in class right now. You don’t have to teach me all the time. Don’t act like it’s your cross to bear.”

He didn’t budge, staring down at her with furrowed brows. “It is my job to always push you, to be firm if it means you reaching your full potential.”

“So you _do_ care about me.”

“As a student. Look, this thing you feel for me, it’s just a crush. It’s fake love, the kind people eat up at the movies.” Gesturing around the room, he scoffed. “Look around this set! None of this is real, yet when this movie comes out, people will swoon for the romance as though real love can be like that. But it’s all fake. Manufactured. Lies.”

He heard her swallow hard. The next words she spoke came out weakly.

“My feelings for you are not fake. What I feel for you is more than just a formulaic Hollywood romance. It’s real. And _real_ feelings are about spending time with someone and enjoying their company, even when you’re just eating stale bagels together. Sharing our vulnerable sides, our deeper thoughts. Trusting one another. Even when the other person is being ridiculously stubborn.”

He turned away from her, ignoring the pang in his chest as he did.

“Thomas.”

“Don’t,” he said, but his voice didn’t come out as stern as he wanted. He squeezed his eyes shut and rubbed his temples. “I just want to rest. It’s clear no one’s coming until morning. Might as well take advantage of this silly set piece. I’m sure there’s another bedroom you can stay in.”

“You-” She picked up a pillow from the bed and screamed into it. “It’s not like I _want_ this. I would _love_ to not have feelings for my surly professor.”

“Great. Then it’s settled.” He primly pulled back the silk sheets and slipped under them, sliding a little too far from the texture. “Good night.”

He closed his eyes and stilled.

And then, once he heard her walk away, he opened them again.

* * *

She didn’t bother trying to navigate through the warehouse in the dark. Knowing her luck, she would probably trip and break her leg, or bleed out on some fancy imported carpet and get billed for the damages.

_And Hunt would scold and scold, because that’s all he does,_ she thought bitterly.

For a while there, she might have thought they were getting somewhere. She didn’t expect him to do a complete one-eighty and want to dive head-first into a relationship or anything, but she did think that the progress they’d made would’ve lasted.

Two steps forward, five steps back.

Like she had done when she followed him into the garish honeymoon sweet set, she clung to the wall until she caught sight of the other candles still lit up on the table. Instead of sitting on her chair, she opted to slide to the floor, placing her candle beside her.

The warehouse’s temperature had dropped even more. She hadn’t noticed it earlier, but there was even more of a chill about the air. She hugged herself and tried to keep her mind off the cold. She tried to imagine the beach, then any other memory that included the sun and its blessed warmth.

None of it worked.

After what felt like an eternity of grinding her chattering teeth together, she pulled out her phone and turned on the screen, blinking at the bright light. Just past midnight.

It was going to be a _long_ night.

“Your cell phone has been charged this whole time?”

Hunt stood over her, jacket draped over his shoulder.

She curled her knees up to her chest. “I was just checking the time. Still no signal, if that’s what’s bothering you.”

“Did you think to try to call or text one of your little friends to help us?” he asked. “You could have tried. I did.”

“I was watching you drain your phone battery and thought it might be a good idea to preserve mine.” She rolled her eyes. “Go back to bed, professor.”

She heard him step closer. Then, something draped over her lap, a shock of warmth and textures with an exquisitely quilted inner layer. Instinctively, she snuggled underneath it, but she looked up at him in confusion.

“There are enough pillows to make a barrier,” he said quietly. “That way we won’t touch at all, and we can both get some sleep. Come along.”

“Seriously?” she asked.

He held out a hand, an olive branch. “Seriously.”

* * *

The screech of the warehouse doors opening startled them both from sleep. Jackknifing out of his lying position, he immediately dove for the suit jacket that had fallen to the floor as he slept. She was a little slower to get up but finally stood and dusted herself off.

“Tommy?”

Hunt clenched his jaw. “In here.”

Seconds later, Jaxson warily poked his head through the doorway, apprehensive of the wrath he was sure to receive from his old friend. What he didn’t expect was the presence of the student, groggily rubbing her eyes with the back of her hands at the opposite side of the room. But seeing the disturbed sheets and pillow strewn about the heart-shaped bed and the deliberate space between them now, he couldn’t help but smirk even as Hunt stalked towards him.

“Where do I even begin?” Hunt seethed. “Who was the _absolute idiot_ who approved of this studio warehouse’s design? I need numbers, and I need them _now_. This is absolutely _unacceptable_ . . .”

As Hunt began his rant, Jaxson watched as the student slipped past them and through the doors, bringing her phone to her ear as she walked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to any and every person who has come across this fic, whether you saw it on here or on Tumblr. I appreciate every hit, kudos, and comment.


	3. 3. alone in our secret, together we sigh

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thomas found himself fixated on the booth in which the action movie star was openly flirting with his other notorious nuisance of a student…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I see a lot of fics that like to explore the Date Auction date.  
> I thought I'd switch it up a little. ;)

* * *

“I did _not_ bid a hundred and fifty bucks for you to not pay attention to me,” whined Bianca Stone.

Thomas Hunt, who sat nearly a foot away from his “date” in Chateau de Rose, barely resisted the urge to roll his eyes. He had known that auctioning off his evening for charity was going to guarantee him several hours of boredom at best, but being essentially held captive by one of his most detested students was not what he had even considered in the realm of possibilities for how the night would go. Aria Sheridan, the unnervingly perky hostess and auctioneer, had failed to inform him that his students would be allowed to bid on him, something that surely would have influenced his decision to take part in the event. But he had been one of the bigger names on the block, and though he knew that hundred and fifty dollars was Anders Stone’s money, at least it was going to some good use for once-

“Thomas, are you even listening to me?”

Snapped out of his thoughts, he reluctantly turned his gaze to his student. “Do _not_ call me that.”

Bianca’s frown quickly turned sly. “Oh, okay. I’ll call you ‘professor’ then, if that’s what you _like_.”

He did not appreciate the implications behind her words. Or the tone she used to deliver them.

Thankfully, their server appeared, bearing their respective meals and drinks, giving him a much needed out from the salacious turn their stilted conversation was going. Though he hadn’t been to Chateau de Rose in years, not since – well, it had been a while, but he had ordered what he considered to be his favourite dish. Salmon Wellington with a side of herb and garlic mashed potatoes and acid-free cherry tomatoes. Back when he had frequented the restaurant with – well, back then, he only ordered the buttered mashed potatoes to spare his date from garlicky breath. But now, however, he hoped it would at the very least deter Bianca.

As he gulped down his three fingers of scotch, he nearly choked at the feeling of a shoe rubbing suggestively against his ankle. Swallowing hard, he shifted further away from her, only for the distance to be shortened by his smirking companion.

“Don’t be shy, professor.” The way she said the last word made his skin feel like crawling. “We’re tucked away in the corner. You don’t have to be so staid. We can get a little closer. A _lot_ closer, in my opinion.”

Though the meal was as delicious as he had remembered, his stomach was churning. “I don’t know what you think this is-”

And then a commotion pulled his attention away from her, to where two people were noticeably getting escorted to the only other booth near them. The commotion came not from the two settling into their seats, but from other diners present who apparently couldn’t help but speak loudly of their entrance.

“Is _that_ who I think it is?”

“Why, of course, I worked at the Fox Theatre for years. I’d recognize that face anywhere!”

“Chris Winters and . . . wait, who’s that with him?”

“That’s certainly not Sofia Morena.”

“Now, where have I seen that girl before? She looks so familiar.”

As the voices of the other diners seemed to fade into the din of the restaurant, Thomas found himself fixated on the booth in which the action movie star was openly flirting with his other notorious nuisance of a student. Tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, the conventionally handsome household name and A-lister leaned into her and whispered something, earning him a face-splitting smile and a laugh that Thomas had heard often from across the lecture hall.

And several times during . . . other situations, but he didn’t want to think about those.

Ignoring Bianca’s attempts at getting him to sit closer to her, Thomas finished his food and signalled to the waiter for another drink. He gulped down his refill in record time as he watched Chris Winters wrap an arm around her shoulder and hold his phone in an angle that suggested they were taking a selfie.

Thomas sensed Bianca moving a little closer, cell phone in hand.

“Don’t even think about it,” he muttered.

Bianca scowled. “If I had known you were going to be this rude, I would never have bid on you! You’re the worst date ever.”

Removing the cloth napkin from his lap, he dabbed at the corners of his lips carefully before folding it and placing it on the table beside his empty plate.

“Miss Stone, what exactly did you think was going to happen?” Thomas asked, genuinely curious. “Did you think your purchasing several hours of my time for charity guaranteed that we’d, I don’t know, fall in love and have children together? At the very least, cross the line that should never be crossed between student and teacher? I wish I could say I didn’t expect you to be so obtuse. This is simply a charitable obligation for me. I mean, really. Do you honestly think I _want_ to be here?”

Bianca stood up so fast that Thomas instinctively leaned back. Grabbing her purse and phone with one hand, she took hold of her half-drunken bellini and tossed it at him, narrowly missing his face.

“I’m getting a refund,” Bianca declared. “And for your information, I wasn’t even _that_ into you anyway.”

“Right,” Thomas deadpanned, assessing the damage the colourful cocktail was doing to his shirt.

Bianca left in a huff, leaving him damp in alcohol and feeling uncomfortably vulnerable to the other diners, who had begun speaking to each other about what had just transpired in more hushed tones than before. He heard his name murmured more than once, which annoyed him; usually, he was in more dignified situations when he was recognized, and he suspected that this incident would be in a tabloid soon enough.

But he had other things to worry about, like the state of his clothing. He took his cloth napkin and delicately dabbed at the splatter. The shirt was most likely a write-off, unless he could get a-

“Tide pen?”

He startled at the sight of his other student, having left the booth where she had sat with Chris Winters to approach him, brandishing the aforementioned product as though she were offering a spare pencil. Warily, he took it, and made quick work of his shirt. Though he knew she lingered by him, he didn’t glance up until after he had finished the application. Then, he handed it back to her with little fanfare.

Still, she didn’t move from where she stood, watching him closely as though assessing the situation.

Finally, he snapped, “What do you want, Miss Schuyler?”

His student seemed surprised by his tone. But quickly, her eyes narrowed. “You’re welcome.”

He felt a rush of heat on his cheeks, realizing that he didn’t even bother thanking her for the pen. Though he had his own doubts about whether it would actually work, it was a nice gesture all the same. Clearing his throat, he turned to look at her properly, only to find that she had returned to her booth and her own celebrity date, who seemed eager to recapture her attention now that he had been handled.

_Well_ , Thomas thought as he prepared to leave, _at least the rest of my evening is free._

* * *

Unfortunately for Thomas, it was not to be.

Aria Sheridan, upon getting brought up to speed with what had occurred between him and Bianca, called him just as he was getting into his car. Though his bidder had forfeited her date – and failed to bully her way into getting a refund – he was still obligated to attend the other event for the evening. And, much as he hated to admit it, it wasn’t like he had other plans for himself other than getting out of his suit and repressing the evening’s events with a bottle of merlot.

The aquarium had been kept open after hours for the charity dates, and though he felt a little silly walking through the exhibits by his lonesome, he much preferred it to having to deal with Bianca clamped to his side, much like the starfish to its mossy rock. He found himself walking in a tunnel made mostly of glass, surrounded by aquatic creatures who seemed almost at peace with being held captive for ogling by the public. Even he knew it was cynical to think like that, but he couldn’t help himself. The seahorses, the clownfish, even the eels, all unwitting spectacles for the amusement of those who would tap on the glass and buy obnoxious, over-priced plush versions of the creatures at the gift shop afterwards.

Despite himself, while stopping to observe some jellyfish, he wondered if it would have been an enjoyable experience with an actual date.

Now that he was finally alone, barring the fish, he allowed himself to reminisce, his mind’s eye conjuring up a heart-shaped face with a dazzling smile and a laugh that he was startled he even remembered. Her name on his tongue, as though he were decades younger again, being dragged out of the dorms to a party or being pulled along during a tiring, cliché hike to the Hollywood sign with their likeminded peers.

He pressed his fingertips gently to the glass, closing his eyes against the blue tint of the tunnel.

_Yvonne_.

He wondered if she ever thought of him, of the aspiring director who had failed to meet her that fateful night when they were to run away together, as her time in America was ending. He had sat in his dorm room all night, his hair clenched between his fingers, forcing himself to read to distract himself from thinking of her sitting at the bus stop. He wondered, for the first time in years, if he would ever see her again. If he would ever feel like how she made him feel again.

It was a love destined to end, and they both knew it. But they were young, in love, and desperately foolish enough to believe in those grand gestures Hollywood peddled in their blockbusting, lackluster romantic comedies. He had not wanted it to end, but he knew that running away would severely hinder his burgeoning career, and though he had loved her, he loved film – and the prospect of being one of the greats – more.

Still, he had regrets. He seldom allowed himself to dwell on them, but as soon as he afforded himself that moment of weakness, it all came back to him. His mind was cruel enough to conjure up dregs of their final conversation, done over the phone, months after she had returned to Spain, when his guilt and his need to hear her voice became too much to bear.

_“I have a husband now. We’re expecting.”_

_“You made up your mind. I made up mine.”_

And, lastly, _“Please don’t call me again.”_

It could have been him, and he knew it. She knew it. But it wasn’t. And, as far as Thomas was concerned, he might never be that for someone.

A husband. A father. A lover.

He had his career, the respect of his peers, and accolades that spilled over the polished surfaces of his many armoires and credenzas. All that had been dreams when he had met her.

He didn’t dream anymore. Couldn’t remember what he last dreamt of even if he tried. His life had become a blur of grading and critiques and tiresome events. Waking up in his bed and falling back into it sixteen hours later, repeating the cycle with little to differentiate the days.

Though he had dated after Yvonne, he found it difficult to forge a lasting connection with any of his now-exes. God, how he had tried. Marianne, for all that they had in common, was just too much like him, critical and cold, and they were better off as friends anyway. And Priya . . . he hesitated to brand her a mistake, but his memories of their short relationship proved that her choosing to prioritize her career over him was not a decision he should’ve been blindsided by. He chose not to dwell on the others, those he had brief dalliances with, because they were momentary distractions more than anything else.

All the awards in the world couldn’t fill the void he had been working tirelessly since that night in his dorm room to ignore.

He hadn’t realized he’d pressed his forehead to the glass until a _thunk_ from the other side startled him out of his thoughts. A turtle knocked itself against the glass before swimming away. He looked after it for a few seconds before straightening his shoulders, wiping under his eyes with his thumb, and leaving the tunnel through where he had come in.

The room he entered was more dimly lit than the tunnel, but the displays emanated that blue-green glow that made it obvious where everything was. He didn’t have to squint much to see the benches, the informative plaques citing statistics and scientific names, and . . . he stilled.

Even shrouded in shadows, he recognized her immediately.

His student stood alone, tears streaking down her face. Her head bowed as soon as she saw him enter, and her arms, wound around her torso as if giving herself a hug, squeezed her sides as if in reassurance or comfort.

No Chris Winters in sight, or anyone else involved in the date auction, for that matter.

His chest felt tight at the sight of her.

But, before he could say anything, she broke the silence.

“I’m sorry I let Bianca win.”

Thomas blinked, taken aback by the apology.

“I could have won,” she continued, her voice shaky in a way that made his own throat feel dry, “but I let her win. I shouldn’t have.”

He felt frozen in place. “Where is your date?” His voice embarrassingly cracked at the last word.

“He’s gone.” She sniffled, a pitiful sound in the otherwise silence.

Thomas looked around. Still no employees or other charity dates in sight. Where did they all go? Were they even here when he showed up? He struggled to remember much of anything between parking in the nearly empty lot and all the memories he dredged up with his forehead pressed against the glass.

His student lowered herself onto a bench and buried her face in her hands. And, as much as a part of him scolded him for doing so, he joined her on it, though he chose to keep his eyes glued to the exhibit in front of them rather than the girl softly crying by his side.

“I bet you would’ve been a better date than Miss Stone,” he finally said.

She made a sound between a sob and a laugh. “I know I would be.” She raised her head and gave him a little smile. “For example, _I_ wouldn’t waste a bellini on you.”

That little smile made him feel a little braver. He reached over and placed a hand on her shoulder. The mere touch made her smile brighten for a beautiful, lingering moment, before dimming once more as her eyes went downcast.

Thomas wanted desperately for that smile to reappear.

“I wanted to keep bidding,” she admitted. “You looked so nervous on the stage, seeing Bianca and I bid on you. And, between the two of us, I consider myself the lesser evil, so . . . I was going to.”

“What stopped you?” Thomas asked, shifting on the bench to see her better. Her eyes were still downcast, but she had somewhat of a bitter smile playing on her lips.

“I want to say my friends,” she said slowly. “They knew Chris was going to be at the auction, and that he’d taken me on a couple of dates already, so I felt pressured to bid for him. But that’s not the real reason.”

Thomas’s brows furrowed. “What is the real reason, then?”

She snorted. “It was the way you looked at me. When you were standing on the stage, when I was about to outbid her. You looked . . . well, you were . . . disgusted.”

Sighing deeply, she turned her gaze to the exhibit in front of them, following the manta ray’s movements as though she hadn’t just made Thomas’s stomach twist with her confession.

They were dangerously close to talking about _it_. What had transpired between them in the past few weeks, first at the masquerade, then on that film set overnight. She had not spoken to him about personal matters since that night on the set, allowing him to blissfully pretend as though he hadn’t, for a handful of hours, been close with her in a way that he knew he shouldn’t have been. But now they were alone, and it seemed as though it was the time to discuss it.

“It . . . scared me, seeing you look so horrified by the possibility of spending any time with me. Even after . . . what’s happened between us.” She looked as though she was speaking to the manta ray. “I may be a hell of a handful as your student but believe me when I say I didn’t want to torture you. Still don’t.” She shook her head. “I’m surprised you’re even talking to me, after everything.”

Thomas’s mind was cruel, bringing up images and sensations he hadn’t allowed himself to think of. The beautiful blue dress. Her impressive, fluid dance moves that kept up with his. The sound of her voice as she teased him for apparently being able to recognize every person in that ballroom apart from her. The mask that hid her high cheekbones, one of the most prominent physical characteristics of her, but still couldn’t conceal her identity from him.

The truth that he had kept to himself. That he had known it was her from the start.

His playing along, pretending that he didn’t know who she was, was irresponsible. Reckless. Inappropriate. But he had done it, partly out of curiosity to see where it would lead. Another part due to his boredom of attending the event stag, of attending such events for years alone and without much to keep him past the obligated hour or so of mingling. And another part . . .

“Can I drive you home?”

She looked surprised to hear him offer. And, honestly, he was surprised he offered, too. For a moment, they looked at each other, frozen in that mutual moment, before she nodded.

“I don’t think there’s anything going on after this, so . . . if you wouldn’t mind, I’d be grateful not to walk back in heels.”

* * *

He’d let her pick the music for the drive and was surprised that she unearthed a CD case from the console to rifle through.

“Barry Manilow?” Margot giggled. “I didn’t take you for a Fanilow.”

“Don’t make me regret this,” Thomas said warningly, though he found the corners of his mouth twitching.

She flipped to the next few slots. “Ooh. A big musical theatre fan. The Music Man, Oklahoma, and – Ooh!” Pulling out a CD, she stuck it into the slot and allowed the music to wash over them both. At a red light, he side-eyed her with an amused grin.

“What? ’The King and I’ is one of my favourite shows,” she admitted.

The light changed, and another song began, one in which two forbidden lovers sang about hiding their relationship. Though she seemed unaffected by it, choosing to stare out of the window, he felt himself glancing more and more at her as the song progressed.

He did not appreciate the irony.

But, all the same, he kept a close eye on her as they neared the dormitories. Where, he realized too late, it would be completely conspicuous for him to be dropping off one of his students in the late hours of the evening. Especially one who was dressed to the nines like she had just gone on a big date-

Wait a minute.

He looked over at her as the car came to a stop by the curb. She was rifling through her purse for her keys, hardly paying attention to his lingering eyes, when he spoke.

“Why did Mr. Winters leave you this evening?”

She stilled. Sucking in her bottom lip, she bit down on it enough to transfer some of her lipsticks to her teeth.

He waited.

And waited.

Then . . .

“Good night, professor. Thank you for getting me back safely.” Her hand moved toward the door handle, only to freeze on it upon contact.

Offering her an out, he simply said, “Good night.”

But rather than swinging open the door and taking her leave, she turned herself until she was angled to him, her face fully visible to him. Though her eyes still seemed a bit puffy from her earlier crying, she looked otherwise flawless, even with the slight smear of dusty rose lipstick on her front teeth.

“He knew I wasn’t . . . into being with him tonight, but he had been a good sport all the same,” she said, her voice so soft against the darkness of the night and the gentle hum of the car’s engine. “We got to the aquarium shortly after you did. I saw you in that tunnel, looking so upset, so sad, and I wanted to talk to you. But Chris . . . well, he didn’t want me to. Said I’d been distracted all evening and that I needed to focus on what _really_ matters.”

Thomas suppressed the urge to scoff. Regardless of the kindness Chris Winters may have usually bestowed upon her, his superstar ego still got in the way. It wasn’t a surprise; big names like him, whose careers revolve around big-budget, unnecessary-explosions-and-gunfights, tropey Tommy Phelps-ian films, almost always thought far too highly of themselves, demanding their mere presence entitled them to nothing less than the best at restaurants, public events, and the like, as though they weren’t one injury away from being replaced by a brighter-eyed actor who continued the vicious cycle . . .

Margot’s voice was a little quieter than before, more vulnerable.

“So, I did.”

Their gazes met over the centre console and held for several moments too long.

Thomas felt strange, a mixed bag of emotions furiously working their way over his senses. Mortified that she’d seen him so . . . so human. Upset at himself for opening that old wound in the first place. Confused that she had intended to blow off one of Hollywood’s biggest movie stars to comfort him. Touched that she considered him and his feelings of great importance to her.

“I made up my mind,” she continued, shrugging. “He made up his.”

His ribcage felt constricting around his lungs. Her eyes upon him felt both judgemental and soothing.

Finally, he straightened up in his seat, nodding to himself as he broke the spell. She similarly took the movement as a dismissal and pulled on the door handle, stepping out into the cool night. Illuminated now by the lamppost by the sidewalk, he could see her, really see her.

Of course, he’d seen Margot on screen in several assignments during his class. For all her faults, she really was a remarkable actress, and her classmates almost always asked for her assistance in their projects, meaning that her visage was more often than not gracing the screen, inexplicably yet seamlessly transformed into whichever character she was embodying. He could recognize her a mile away, regardless of the darkness of the room or the mask perched upon her face.

“Good night,” he said.

“Good night, Thomas,” Margot said, giving him one last small smile before closing the door and turning for her dorm.

He did not correct her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, friends. A massive thanks to those who have taken the time to read this quarantine-spawned fic, and an extra-special thanks to those who have commented and kudos'd (is that the right term?). I promise I will update again soon :)


	4. 4. nothings and somethings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “There’s something here, between us. Please don’t tell me you don’t know what it is.”  
> “An umbrella.”

* * *

Margot was never a fan of dark rides. It was quite understandable, considering her past, that she would hate twisting tracks in near-darkness, swallowed up in dimly lit scenery, and carried along in jerky carts past fantasy backdrops and jolting creature animatronics, as if the glossy-painted bunnies and bears would distract her from what lurked just beyond the backdrops. On her first and only trip to Disneyland, she’d staunchly refused to squeeze into a Peter Pan flight carriage. Instead, Miss Peaches paid for an overpriced ice cream that melted quickly under the sweltering sun that Margot refused to take refuge from. After all that time waiting in the dark for someone who would never return, she made a point to surround herself with light.

So, of course, Bianca lured her into the Riding Hood ride at Fairy Kingdom. The formal was well underway, and Lisa’s concert was due to begin at any moment, but the celebutante - and daughter of the most manipulative man Margot had ever met – knew how to get her away from the spotlight.

Without one of her borrowed designer heels to complete her outfit, Margot had no other choice but to retrieve it. Even if it meant doing what she couldn’t bring herself to do before.

“See you never,” Bianca said saccharinely, slapping the ‘start’ button at the operator’s booth with a flourish.

A garishly painted car with Squeaky the Squirrel – and her very expensive, borrowed-from-the-designer pure white G. Lass shoe – lurched forward, slipping through the large archway into darkness. Margot squinted, but couldn’t make out any shapes through the arch.

Bianca blew a sarcastic kiss as she flounced away.

A red-and-white checkered car flanking a particularly terrifying bust of Madame Wolfe on the hood appeared on the tracks, squealing to a stop by the booth. Margot slipped into the final seat of the car, just as it too lurched forward and made its way through the archway.

She was quickly engulfed in the pitch-black. She stilled, her hands gripping the safety bar in front of her. No sound at all; Bianca must’ve done the bare minimum to get the ride moving, and so the music and whatever else that had to be activated separately were not in operation.

Or something like that. Margot wasn’t well versed in . . . well, many things, but certainly not amusement park ride operations.

Margot took a deep breath, then another, trying her hardest not to simply sink down into the seat and begin her panic-chant. That would do her no good right now, especially since she wouldn’t believe it anyway.

No one was here. She was all alone. All alone in the dark, in this stupid ride designed for children that brought her right back to _that barren hovel, that bare mattress scratchy against her cheek-_

The ride dropped, and Margot leaned forward to wrap most of her arms around the safety bar as she waited for the car to level.

_This_ , she thought, this _is why I stayed outside all those years ago._

The car squealed beneath her as it continued moving through the dark. She felt the car ride a large turn, and then squeezed her eyes shut in preparation as an archway with a world bursting with light and sound and colours beyond it came into view.

Through the fake forest filled with candy colours and whirring Woodland Warriors with glassy eyes and jerky motions, she saw up ahead the car with Squeaky and the shoe. Despite her eyes watering from the sudden shift into light, she leapt out of the car and dashed through the fake forest, dodging branches and tiny animatronics donning “wooden” armor and weaponry. Cutting through a curve, Margot made it to the other side of the track just as the car with the shoe maneuvered around a nearby curve.

Stepping onto the car, she maneuvered her way through the rows. Finding the G. Lass heel, she slipped her foot back into it before collapsing into the seat behind her, exhausted from the effort of the chase.

It would take two other rooms – an admittedly riveting battle scene and the resulting Woodland Warrior celebration – before the car reappeared before the gaudy castle backdrop and operator’s booth at the loading dock. In that time, Margot conceded; the critters had kind-of realistic fur, and the backdrops were detailed enough to distract her through the rest of the ride.

But the cheesy nursery rhyme-y celebratory song the animatronics twisted to? Yeah, _that_ was going to be stuck in her head forever now.

Yet another reason to despise Bianca.

* * *

Margot emerged from the Riding Hood ride sweaty and messy-haired. She prayed silently that the paparazzi snapping photos all evening had gotten distracted by another attendee, so the chances of May Gordon or another vulture reporter getting a shot of her looking disheveled were very low. She was a Penn Cattrall-approved actress now. Negative press might make him change his mind before they’d even sent her the script, and she didn’t want to lose such an amazing opportunity.

She followed a narrow stone-paved pathway that seemed to head towards the castle. In the distance, she could hear Lisa’s concert raging, the head-thrashing song she’d helped write threatening to shake the leaves off the surrounding trees. What had started as light rain quickly gained heft and speed, and Margot hugged herself as she took step by shivering step towards the brightly lit castle that seemed to glow beneath the star-speckled sky.

“S-so c-cold-”

Margot stopped short. A turn in the path had revealed that she wasn’t alone on it; a dark-haired man in a suit stood beneath an umbrella, gripping the handle with one hand while lazily scrolling on his phone with the other.

Thunder crashes across the sky, like a shout from the heavens, and he glanced up, starting when he saw her staring back at him.

She reckoned she must’ve been a sight to him: inky hair plastered to the sides of her face, makeup running down her face, her silver-blue dress dampened by the rapid rainfall. Of course, she assumed she looked awful. No setting spray in the world could withstand such a downpour, or at least not the one she used.

Meanwhile, he looked as put together as usual. His all-black suit was pristine, and if it weren’t for the furrowed brow and ever-present scowl on his face, she might’ve assumed he worked at the amusement park, or at least for the event that night.

“P-Professor,” she said.

His voice was hesitant, as if he couldn’t believe what he was seeing. “Is - Are you all right, Miss Schuyler?”

She shrugged.

Thunder rolled over them again, making her jump.

Professor Hunt quickly made his way over to her and held his umbrella above them, offering reprieve from the sheets of rain that somehow wasn’t dampening the energy of Lisa’s concert crowd, if the shouts and screaming to the thumping music were anything to go by.

When her heart stopped pounding so loudly, and she started to feel a little less like a drowned rat, she chanced a look at him. His focus was back on his phone, though he was not scrolling, and appeared to be frowning at the screen.

“Thanks,” she said, her voice barely audible above the rain.

He didn’t take his eyes off his screen. “It’s nothing.”

She shook her head indignantly, dispelling drops of rainwater onto his suit. He wisely didn’t say anything about it, choosing instead to focus on her face as she replied.

“It’s not nothing. It’s you being nice. Maybe that means nothing to you, but it means something to me.”

“I would do this for any student caught in the rain,” he said blandly.

“But I’m not just ‘any student.’” She dared to look him right in the eye. “You’ve driven me back to my dorm before. You’ve been stuck with me on a movie set. You’ve danced with me publicly-”

“-While _disguised_ ,” he hissed.

Margot rolled her eyes. “There’s _something_ here, between us. Please don’t tell me you don’t know what it is.”

His voice was flat. “An umbrella.”

“Thomas.”

“ _Miss Schuyler_ -”

Another boom of thunder, and that one seemed to do the trick; from their position on the pathway, they could feel the rumble of running feet hurrying towards the shelter of the castle, the chatter of the crowd carrying over the bushes and trees that separated them from the pair huddled beneath an umbrella.

“My shoes!”

“Ugh, it took me two hours to get my hair done.”

“That Lisa Mermaid girl better not win the ‘One to Watch’ tonight. We’ve already watched her! She can’t possibly qualify.”

“I bet it’ll be that girl dressed up like a Neopets faerie. Niche much?”

“I thought she was Thumbelina.”

From beside her, Margot felt more than heard his deep sigh.

“What are you thinking about?” she asked.

It was a safer topic than what they were just discussing, and she could tell he was grateful for the switch. He stood a little taller, lifting the umbrella slightly so he can take a better look at the bustling crowd from their hiding spot.

“Despite, or perhaps because of, the University’s best efforts, this Fairy Kingdom Formal is quite possibly the most _ridiculous_ event of the year. The media circus is out in full-force, and even students who’ve yet to make a name for themselves are acting like fools to catch their attention. Look around. Who among them deserves to be named someone to watch in the industry? Queen Titania? Ursula? Jack the Giant Slayer?” He squinted, perplexed, at one of the costumes. “Is that . . . the old woman who lived in the shoe? Who – or what – _is_ that?”

Margot suppressed a giggle. “But look, you’re here too, right? Doesn’t that make you part of the problem?”

He peered down at her, thick eyebrows knitting together. “I . . . fair point.”

They stood in silence for another minute before she nudged him with her elbow and gestured for him to lean down.

Cupping a hand around his ear, she whispered, “You want to know what I think?”

Despite himself, he nodded.

Her voice was airy, reminiscent. “Everyone here wants to be something, but not everyone here will succeed.”

As she pulled away from him, he reached up to her cupped hand and took a surprisingly gentle hold of her wrist. She froze, eyes stuck on where his skin touched hers, and she wondered if he felt the same shockwave she did.

“Is that right?” he drawled.

She nodded.

“Aren’t you part of that problem, then? You _clearly_ want to be seen as something by being here, all dressed up and looking every bit the damsel in distress. Though the shoes definitely are a . . . statement.”

He nodded at her shoes, and she felt herself blush at the realization that he’d noticed the G. Lass heels that hugged her feet like a second skin.

“You _know_ I’m no damsel in distress.”

“So you were walking in the rain for fun?”

She shook her head at him, ready to retort, when she heard the chimes of the castle clock. Looking down at her shoes once more, she silently counted the chimes in her head.

_Seven . . . eight . . . nine . . . ten . . . eleven . . . oh, no!_

Margot’s eyes widened as the chimes for midnight began. Feeling her pulse quicken beneath his fingertips, Hunt dropped the wrist he had forgotten he was holding and raised an eyebrow.

“What’s wrong, Margot?” he asked.

She was embarrassed to be on the verge of tears. “I’m too late. I’m supposed to have these shoes back to Ethan before midnight. I’m not even sure where Ethan is right now, and the shoes are all covered in mud, and I _can’t_ get negative press right now-”

“Hey.” He moved to stand in front of her, placing a hand on her shoulder. “Breathe.”

Though she took a deep breath, she still rattled on. “But Ethan will get in trouble with _the_ G. Lass! They told him that the shoes had to be back by midnight or else, and I don’t even know what ‘or else’ means to them!”

“G. Lass?” Hunt cocked his head to the side, as if listening intently. “The shoe designer?”

“No, the baker,” Margot snapped. “Of course, the shoe designer.”

And, in one perfectly fluid motion that startled Margot, Hunt reached up and pulled the umbrella closed before stepping to her side and offering his arm to her. Shocked at both the disappearance of the pounding rainfall and his sudden gesture, she hesitated to make a move.

“I’m certain Mister Blake will be waiting at the front entrance for you,” Hunt said calmly. “Furthermore, it’s getting late. I’d like to make sure you get there without any further delays.”

And, though she was confused by the sudden shift in topic and demeanor, she placed a hand upon his offered arm and matched his pace on the pathway to the castle.

* * *

For a moment, Margot saw Ethan waiting by the limousine, forehead creased in worry and visible from far away.

And then her line of sight was overtaken by flashing lights and shouts that sounded both right beside her ear and far off in the distance. Blinking rapidly, she turned her head to look up at her professor, who steadfastly directed her to her agent and idling limo with a tense jaw and determined stare forward. More lights flashed; she squinted towards them to find that they were slowly being mobbed by paparazzi.

“Looks like they found you,” she said quietly.

Though his face was practically set in stone, his voice was sardonic. “Actually, it looks like they’ve found _you_. I overheard a few of them earlier . . . you’ve been the ‘One to Watch’ the moment you showed up.”

Startled, she glanced around them, her expression seemingly opening her up to the descending vultures. Reporters began to shout at her, from compliments to questions about the inspiration behind her costume, but she simply stared forward and strained her ears to hear Hunt mutter beside her.

“Even though that means _literally nothing_.”

And though the reporters and the camera flashes felt overwhelming, and the wrinkles on Ethan’s forehead seemed to deepen as she and Hunt reached the limo with the horde tailing after them, she felt a genuine smile play at her lips.

Ethan admonished, “Margot, the _shoes_ -”

Hunt cleared his throat. “Mister Blake. Tell G. Lass upon returning the shoes that they never specified _which_ midnight they were to be returned by.” At the young agent’s confused stare, he added, “I don’t question the idiosyncrasies of such an eclectic designer. But I do know how to work with them, and I have before. It’s an easy loophole to exploit. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got my own car to get to, and these photographers are tap-dancing on my last nerve.”

Ethan ushered Margot into the limo, sliding in to sit beside Addison and a shockingly sleepy Lisa. And then, just before Hunt closed the door for them, Margot caught his gaze.

“Thank you, Professor.” She hoped the small smile she gave him conveyed her gratitude. She punctuated it with a small wave, instantly feeling dorky at the gesture.

A corner of his mouth pulled up as he gave her a short nod in acknowledgement.

Then he was gone.

As the limo headed back to the school dorms, Margot leaned back into the buttery leather of the seats, her mind replaying that short nod and smile while her friends gossiped beside her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I continue to be amazed every time I get a hit on this fic. I really appreciate every click. Thank you all so much.


	5. 5. headhunter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He can’t leave. He just can’t.

* * *

Another day, another lecture.

Thomas paced in front of his students, having abandoned his stance before the lectern more than half an hour ago. With only fifteen minutes left until class ended, and still much to cover, he spoke at a slightly faster speed than usual. He doubted his students noticed; most of them had packed away their notebooks already and were distracting themselves with their phones held in their laps.

_Fools_ , he thought. _Do they think I don’t know what they’re doing?_

He didn’t have time to raise hell for their insolence; he had a meeting to attend. So, as much as he hated letting things slide, he gritted his teeth and pressed on.

“The more credited ‘writers’ a film has, the worse it will be. The sheer number of revisions a screenplay must go through to rack up six, seven, eight writers . . . it’s appalling!” He rubbed his temples with his fingers, as if trying to erase the memories of his time trying to – and ultimately passing on - play script doctor for an action-adventure franchise that had employed no less than eight writers to cobble together the final, nonsensical storyline that effectively alienated large droves of the franchise’s fans.

Checking his watch, he mentally cursed at the time before heading right for his desk.

“Remember, your papers on prewar and postwar experimental cinema are due next class. Any submissions sent in later than precisely nine o’clock in the morning will be deducted points. None of you could stand to lose any points, if the grades so far for this class this semester are any indication. Class dismissed.”

Thomas turned his attention to packing up his things and hightailing it out of the lecture hall. Yet, beyond the rush of feet moving towards the door and mindless chatter about what people’s plans for the evening were – _did_ I _ever consider Wednesday nights party nights in college?_ he wondered briefly – he could hear a few distinct voices among the din.

“Since when does Hunt check with _you_ before he does something?” he heard Ethan Blake say.

He paused in the middle of stashing away his laptop.

After a pause, Miss Schuyler said, “I just meant . . . don’t you think he’d tell the class before-”

“Are we really discussing this in front of him?” Miss Sinclair stage whispered.

He lifted his head to find the three students still standing by their desks, looking directly at him. Upon capturing his attention, they started at being caught and leapt into extremely unnatural stances: Ethan Blake rubbed the back of his neck with one hand while staring pointedly upwards, Miss Sinclair focused intently on the palms of her hands, and Miss Schuyler . . . was still looking at him, but had pasted a terrifyingly wide smile on her face.

He glanced again at his watch. He _truly_ didn’t have time for this.

Rolling his eyes at the trio, he headed straight for his office to grab his jacket and keys. Then, it was off to the inanely named restaurant where he’d be meeting the faculty recruiter of Southern California University’s film school.

* * *

“Don’t you think he’d tell the class before ditching us in the middle of the year?” Margot asked. “He isn’t the type to cut and run. I just know he isn’t! We can’t let him leave!”

Ethan’s eyebrows rose. “You’re awfully emotional about this news.”

Margot glared at him over the table grill of Grilling Me Softly, a Korean barbeque restaurant that opened twenty minutes away from the university. Their platters of pork belly, lemon-and-herb marinated chicken, chadolbagi, and bulgogi had arrived, and it was her turn to do the cooking. She tweaked with her hair, which she’d pulled up into Sailor Moon-like buns to keep the long locks from enticing the flames.

The sight of her with metal tong poised in the air and her glare piercing him from across the circular table had Ethan quickly changing his tune.

“It’s good that you care,” he backtracked. “I just . . . if there’s any professor who would evoke that kind of response from me if there were rumours of them leaving, it would be, like, Moriyama. Someone with a _heart_.”

Addison, who was already digging into her portion of their wild mushroom japchae starter, nodded, cheeks bulging with food.

“He _did_ defend me in my hearing, or have you forgotten?” Margot picked up a few pieces of meat from each plate and dropped it onto the grill, reveling in the satisfying sizzle and steam that instantly came out upon contact. “He’s not _so_ bad.”

Addison dabbed at the corners of her lips with a napkin. “Okay, but how are we going to convince him to stay?”

A body slid into one of the seats next to Ethan so suddenly that the agent nearly leapt from his. Crash, smiling broadly, immediately reached for a bowl of soft rice and egg, chopsticks at the ready in the blink of an eye.

“Convince who?” he asked.

“Jesus, Crash,” Ethan said, pressing a hand over his heart to calm it.

“We’re convincing Jesus?”

Margot rolled her eyes. “Where’s Lisa? Didn’t she give you a ride here?”

Crash, around a mouthful of egg, mumbled something about paparazzi. Margot craned her head around just in time to see her pink-haired friend arrive, settling into the seat beside her while keeping her gaze focused on one of the booths in a corner of the restaurant.

“Hey, Lisa,” she said, turning the meat over with precision.

Lisa wrangled her hair into a high ponytail, securing it with an acid-green scrunchie that clashed horrendously with her outfit and made Addison mentally weep at the fashion faux pas. She finally tore her gaze away from the corner and shot them all a look.

“Hunt’s here,” Lisa said.

Margot’s eyes widened. “ _Here_? In a place called Grilling Me Softly? There’s no way.”

Ethan snickered. “I feel like he’d disintegrate before he’d set foot in a university student hangout, much less one with a punny name.”

“Maybe it’s another man who wears a suit every minute of every day,” Crash suggested.

“Uh, this ‘university student hangout’ is more expensive than our usual fish and chips or burger joints,” Lisa pointed out. “Still, isn’t it strange? And who is that woman he’s with?”

Margot’s cheeks flushed at the mention of a woman.

Not that she had any claim on him whatsoever. She wasn’t even sure of her feelings for him anymore. Sure, they had . . . something, but it wasn’t clear what it meant to him, and she didn’t want to act like a fool for him if he was solely focused on being her instructor.

_Maybe he’s a friend now_ , she considered. _He’s done some friendly things. He’s held his umbrella over me, drove me home after the date auction, and comforted me on the movie set. He didn’t have to do those things, but he did._

_He also kissed me_ , she reminded herself, and she quickly busied herself with replacing the meat on the grill with new slabs, distributing the cooked pieces to her hungry friends.

Meanwhile, with the subtlety of a bull in a china shop, Ethan maneuvered his head until he caught a glimpse of the professor sitting in the corner booth. He squinted at the person he was seated across before turning back to his friends, a mixture of awe and shock on his face.

“Penelope Locke,” he said in a hushed voice. “Headhunter for Southern California U.”

Lisa’s eyes flashed with excitement. “Like an assassin?”

“Who would eat dinner with their assassin?” Ethan replied.

Crash smiled. “I would, just to say I did.”

“You wouldn’t have survived-”

“Guys.” Margot turned her attention back to Ethan. “A headhunter, eh? So he really must be considering leaving Hollywood U.”

Her stomach twisted. Though the smell of the sizzling beef and pork belly was intoxicating, she wasn’t sure if she’d be able to eat any of it knowing that Professor Hunt was sitting across the room possibly planning his escape.

And then the dak kalguksu she ordered came, and her stomach untwisted itself in anticipation of the noodle soup she’d been craving for weeks.

* * *

Across the crowded restaurant, Thomas tasted the plum wine Penelope Locke ordered for them both and sighed. It wasn’t scotch, but it would tide him over until he could get home and have a few fingers from his favourite bottle before bed.

The woman sitting across from him knew his game already, but still pitched him on an open faculty position at SCU Cinematic Arts. But mostly, she kept her expression serious, even when they endured the forty-five minute “meeting” with mostly small talk and occasional glances at the paparazzi waiting for . . . whoever was important enough to be present and photographed at a place called Grilling Me Softly.

Eventually, the bill arrived. Penelope tucked a credit card into the black leather booklet quickly and handed it back to them. Thomas polished off his wine before slipping out of his seat.

“Thank you, Penelope,” he said quietly.

“Anything for a friend.” Penelope’s face was carefully blank as she added, “The paparazzi was a nice touch. They’ll hear about this meeting in no time.”

“Perfect.” He pulled on his coat. “Though I admittedly didn’t plan that part.”

He turned his head to survey the room, searching for the person who had attracted the photographers outside like moths to the table grill’s flames. A shock of pink hair that he usually saw in a bedhead disarray caught his attention, and he groaned internally at noticing that Miss Schuyler and her entourage (including the celebrity in question, Lisa Valentine) were stuffing themselves with near-reckless abandon.

“Do you know them?” Penelope asked, tilting her chin towards the group.

Thomas grimaced. “Yes. I’ll admit I’ve never seen them eat before. It’s . . . rather disturbing.”

Penelope laughed. “Good thing we arrived when we did. They might bankrupt this restaurant yet.”

* * *

The week after his meeting with Penelope, Thomas settled behind his desk in the lecture hall as his Hollywood 101 class filed in slowly. He had already laid out the grading rubrics for the students presenting their midterm projects that day. And, as the presentations began, he immediately regretted staying out a little later than usual the night before, catching up with an old colleague who had since become Hillview Film Academy’s recruiter.

_Seriously_ , Thomas thought, _Lance’s continued attendance at this university is inconceivable. Who does a midterm presentation on “glossy, tangle-taming hair masks for the modern male model”?_

When it came to Miss Sinclair’s presentation, however, he was admittedly impressed by the line of men’s business suits she had come up with. Though he felt she should have cited a more recent point of inspiration than Mad Men or Sex and the City, he marked her accordingly, noting the special craftsmanship and detail-conscious care that she had put into every suit on display.

_I wouldn’t mind wearing the gray one . . ._

Clearing his throat authoritatively, he spoke up. “I’m surprised at your drastic change in artistic direction, Miss Sinclair. I hope you have defended your decisions in the accompanying write-up.”

Miss Sinclair nodded.

Thomas checked his list. “Finally, Mister Yamaguchi.”

Spencer Yamaguchi grinned, already making his way to the door. “All right! I’ve got it all set up in one of the auditoriums. It’s a one-man show about a plucky hero, who struggles with his-”

“Save it for the show, Mister Yamaguchi.” Thomas sighed as he looked at his neatly organized desktop. “And in future, please inform us beforehand if we are to move locations for project presentations. That goes for _all_ of you.”

Grumbling, Thomas picked up his rubrics and laptop and herded the class to the auditorium. While they settled into their seats, Mister Yamaguchi disappeared behind the red velvet curtains that obscured the stage. Among the murmuring of the students waiting for the show to begin, Thomas could hear a microphone check and a five-second snippet of music being tested on the sound system.

The lights went down.

The curtains came up.

A spotlight turned on, illuminating a backdrop of two-dimensional high-rises and streets edged with trees and parked cars.

And the song that had begun to play as part of the sound system check began and continued as the protagonist appeared.

* * *

“Welcome to _The Many Adventures of the Amazing Arachnid Boy_!” crowed Crash from where he dangled from the ceiling, parallel to the stage. “I’m your host, Arachnid Boy himself, and this is the story of . . . me.”

From behind her, Margot could hear Professor Hunt snort. Hearing such an undignified sound from him made her smile.

The hip-hop beat kicked in, and Crash began climbing a cardboard skyscraper, freestyling about his new superpowers without stumbling over his words. His dark red leather jacket had an iron-on spider-shaped patch on the back, and he turned around to show the audience it as the song slowed down for a melancholy bridge.

“No one knows my pain, no one knows the strain,” Crash sang, “on my mental health, gotta be so stealthy . . . I know I seem witty, ‘cause I fly above the city, but when I stop, I can’t stop, I _won’t_ stop . . .”

The beat kicked back in, and he jumped around and immediately leapt to the next cardboard building with exuberance.

“I can’t risk someone getting the drop on me, finding out my identity, putting the serenity of my family at risk . . . ya hear me, villains? Take a shot at me, you’d better not miss!”

As Crash’s show continued, Margot snuck glances over her shoulder at the professor. He seemed more shocked than anything else, and his pen was moving at lightning speed over the paper he had balanced on a clipboard.

_Hopefully those are good notes_ , she thought.

* * *

After Mister Yamaguchi’s self-insert rip-off of an existing superhero defeated its archenemy, the Emerald Elf, the audience around Thomas jumped to its feet in raucous applause. Thomas brought his hands together twice before returning to his notes, jotting down some last-minute observations – _rhymed “city” with “litty”; did the Emerald Elf need a self-deprecating R &B solo?_ – and then ushering the class back into the lecture hall.

“Our presenters for next class are Miss Valentine, Miss Stone, Mister Ortega, Miss Perez, Jayden, and Miss Schuyler. The remaining students will be presenting the following class. Until then, class dismissed.”

As Thomas unlocked his laptop to begin inputting grades, he sensed someone sidling up to him. It didn’t take a genius to figure out who might be approaching him.

“Hello, Professor,” Miss Schuyler said softly. Her bag was already slung over her shoulder. A quick glance to the door indicated that her friends were leaving her behind; he almost wished he could call them back in, to make sure that whatever it was she had to say was said in front of witnesses.

After the Fairy Kingdom Formal, he’d felt odd whenever he so much as looked at her. He wasn’t sure what to make of the new sensation. He worried that it meant something. But it couldn’t, could it? She was a decade younger than him. She was his student. It couldn’t be-

_She told you about her childhood_ , he reminded himself. _She confided in you. It’s not love. It’s you worrying over how she lived when she was younger. That’s all._

He wanted his thoughts to stop right there, but they kept coming anyway, like a second inner voice had joined the conversation to argue a different opinion.

_You knew it was her at the masquerade. You spoke with her. You danced with her. You_ kissed _her._

_Stop._

_You took care of her when she was hungry, cold, and sad. You slept in the same bed as her._

_It meant nothing. It was nothing-_

_You drove her to her dorm after Chris Winters left her in the aquarium. She told you she thought you mattered to her, and you lived off that feeling for days after._

_Stop-_

_You held your umbrella over her. You helped her get to her ride home with little incident._

_That doesn’t mean anything-_

_You like her._

_Stop-_

_You might even_ love _-_

“Professor?”

He blinked and found himself staring up at a very concerned Margot.

“Are you all right?” She adjusted the strap on her shoulder. “I was just . . . did you like Crash’s musical?”

He felt a bit dizzy. “It was interesting,” he said slowly.

“Good interesting?”

He cocked his head to the side, which didn’t help the vertigo. “I always find it fascinating when students suddenly decide that their passions have changed, Miss Schuyler.”

And, though she was an admittedly talented actress, Margot did not hide her nervousness. “Oh, yeah. I see how that could be interesting.”

“Might you know anything about Mister Yamaguchi and Miss Sinclair’s newfound passions?” he asked, mostly to see her squirm.

_There, see?_ he told himself. _I_ revel _in making her uncomfortable, in treating her just like all my other students. This “love” theory is absolute bull-_

“Maybe.” Her eyes widened comically. “I mean. Um. That’s all. Bye.”

She sped-walked out of the hall, and Thomas took a minute to gather himself before turning back to his laptop.

Sifting through his notes, he took extra time with Miss Sinclair and Mister Yamaguchi’s rubrics. They had both delivered impressive projects, ambitious if a bit contrived, but if her reaction was anything to go by, Miss Schuyler had something to do with their sudden fascinations in suits and musical theatre.

* * *

He can’t leave. He just can’t.

Margot had been standing in the main building of the university with her friends, rehashing Lisa’s surprise operatic performance as well as her own avant-garde film she directed, when she saw him hurrying towards a clearly marked administrator’s office. Though his stride was purposeful, and he attracted attention wherever he went due to his being Thomas Hunt and all, something about him radiated the energy of a man who did not want to be seen.

Before knocking on the door, she watched the professor take a deep breath.

And then he stepped through the doorway and out of view, leaving her to draw her own conclusion.

“I hope we did enough to convince him to stay,” she said quietly.

Lisa placed a hand on her shoulder. “If my rendition of Pavarotti didn’t convince him, I doubt anything could.”

“He did like your film, Margot,” Addison said reassuringly. “He didn’t trash it or anything!”

“Sad how that’s a good sign, isn’t it?” Ethan lamented.

* * *

The first class after the midterm project presentations was mostly silent. Thomas had planned it that way; after hearing some of the most illogical projects from this class, he wanted a break from them in a way that still kept them on track with the semester work. He was playing a series of short silent films on the projection screen while he finalized the midterm grades, and apart from some minor whispering – another thing he’ll temporarily turn a blind eye to, as he simply did not have the energy after faking so many recruitment meetings the past ten days – it was peaceful.

“Any word about Hunt’s job situation?”

Or not.

Before Miss Sinclair could reply, Thomas cleared his throat.

“Miss Schuyler. Care to share with the rest of us what you were about to ask Miss Sinclair?”

He’d never seen Miss Schuyler’s cheeks so red. They almost suited her, drawing attention to her high cheekbones-

_Stop_.

“Not with the rest of the class, no, Professor,” she murmured.

He raised an eyebrow at her. “Then perhaps you will share it with me . . . after class. My office.”

She nodded, turning her attention back to her worksheets.

And, as he similarly went back to his own work, he fought to keep the grin off his face.

* * *

“You wanted to see me?”

He leaned back in his chair, setting his arms on the structured arm rests of his chair. “I know what you and your friends have been doing. Don’t play dumb. Miss Sinclair designing suits, Mister Yamaguchi doing a musical, Miss Valentine singing opera.”

She winced. “I guess we were kinda obvious.”

He rolled his eyes. “Extremely obvious.”

“Did it work? Are you gonna stay?”

Was he imagining the eagerness in her voice? The hope that permeated those questions, as if she wanted him to remain at the university, to continue being her professor? He worried he was projecting, but there was something about the way she was looking at him that made him feel . . .

Made him _feel_.

“Do you want me to?” he asked.

She shook her head hard enough that her earrings clacked against her neck. “No. No, I – don’t leave.” She caught herself and added, in a much less emotionally wrought voice, “In my opinion, anyway.”

He looked at her, taking in her slightly trembling hands.

She looked at him, noting the curiosity in his eyes.

Desperate to know what the other one was thinking, but afraid of what they might be thinking of, they stared for a long moment in silence, trying and failing to read each other simply from body language.

Finally, he said, “Then it’s a good thing I was never planning on leaving anyway.”

She let out a sigh – _of relief?_ he wondered – and sunk into the chair opposite him. Instantly relaxing into his own seat, he watched her take a few calming breaths before looking back at him with a new question burning in her eyes.

“Wait, so if you were never planning to leave, then why did you meet with those admins from other schools?”

He smirked. “For leverage during salary negotiations, obviously. I only do it when I feel it’s necessary, and this past year has been quite trying, particularly due to _some_ students.” He looked pointedly at her, and she feigned shock.

“Crash’s musical was ingenious,” she argued.

“Stan Lee’s estate is on its way with a lawsuit as we speak,” he said dryly. “Dr. Seuss could – and has – written better verses.”

“Those are fighting words, Professor.” Margot’s eyes twinkled. “Crash could write The Cat in the Hat, but Dr. Seuss could not write ‘Emerald Elf Hates His Emerald Self.’”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading!


	6. 6. with a little dignity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They had been so transparent from the get-go; it was almost laughable. But it wasn’t he who had the last laugh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello friends! This is going to be a shorter one this time around. Hope that's okay! See you next time.

__

* * *

_“If you expect to ever have a career anything like mine . . . which, let’s be real, you shouldn’t . . . You’ll have to handle Hollywood’s high-pressure environment with the grace and aplomb of a seasoned veteran. You must be prepared for anything,”_ he’d warned them in class, less than twenty-four hours before he made a complete fool of himself in front of his students.

In all his years as a professor at Hollywood University, Thomas had never been successfully pranked on April Fools Day, and he fully intended to keep that record. His students weren’t known for their ingenuity, so the tactics they employed were often derivative and predictable, like the slimy paint bucket drop that his Thesis Lab students rigged above his office door every year like it was tradition. He took pride in seeing through every attempt, and in recent years made it a habit to try and thwart the plan while it was in action, by either getting someone else afflicted by the prank or halting it in its tracks.

(And, while he despised April Fools Day, the memory of tricking Hiromitsu into activating the “watercolour paint balloon bot” brought a smile to his face every time he thought of it.)

But, of course, Miss Schuyler and some of her entourage (which included Bianca Stone for once, which admittedly surprised him) had to take a shot at the king. He honestly would’ve been disappointed if they hadn’t planned at least one go. They had been so transparent from the get-go; it was almost laughable.

But it wasn’t he who had the last laugh.

* * *

_He had confronted the pranksters by the now-shattered skylight on the quad, slow clapping their efforts and crowing about how he’d been steps ahead the whole time. He took pleasure in their dejection, even brandishing the silver key he’d stolen from Margot during his heroic lunge to save her from the toppling bookshelf. And then he declared the prank over, that “he has never successfully been pranked, nor would he ever be.”_

_Hopes dashed, Bianca Stone, Lisa Valentine, and Ethan Blake slowly maneuvered past the gaping hole edged by broken glass. He watched them scurry to his side, relishing their devastation._

_And then Margot spoke._

_“Oh, darn. We really didn’t expect our plan to fall through.”_

_Ethan, who had paused by Thomas’s side, cocked his head to the side._

_On Thomas’s other side, Lisa’s eyes flitted to Margot’s for a moment before turning her attention to him, her blindingly glossy lips pulling into a pout._

_“Yeah, Professor Hunt, you sure caught us in the act!” She faked a sniffle._

_He rolled his eyes at Lisa’s theatrics. “Stop moping around and come along. You lost! Accept defeat with a little dignity.”_

_He began to turn, but Margot spoke once again._

_“Sorry, Professor,” she said, as if she meant it. “We’re coming.”_

_And, so quickly that he had no time to comprehend it, Margot began to maneuver around the skylight towards him when she slipped and disappeared through it, vanishing into the smoke slowly billowing out from below. Her scream, so sharp and shrill, chilled his blood, and he couldn’t hold back his shout of anguish._

_“Margot!”_

_She didn’t respond._

_He rushed to the skylight and tried to squint through the smoke, but it was useless. The fog machine he’d installed to thwart their plan was a powerful one. Its haze obscured the screening room below, and as it leaked out to the quad, made it nearly impossible to see through the broken skylight for any signs of Margot._

_His heart felt frozen in place._

_“Margot!” he called again, unable to keep the desperation out of his voice._

_In that moment, surrounded by her shocked friends, staring into the abyss, he felt painfully helpless._

_Ethan placed a hand on Thomas’s shoulder. “Professor . . .” His mouth was turned downward, a deep frown that the typically professional agent never wore upon his face._

_Thomas turned his head to look at the agent. “Quickly, Ethan, downstairs! We have to get-”_

_Ethan shook his head. “Professor. Listen. It’s too late.”_

_Lisa’s voice trembled, on the verge of tears. “There’s no way she could have survived that . . .”_

_Even Bianca, being Bianca, seemed downcast. “She’s gone.”_

_He stepped back from the skylight and threaded his fingers in his hair, disheveling the neatly combed and gelled locks he so carefully cultivated every day. His heart was now at a racehorse gallop beneath his suit. He felt as though the floor would meet his face shortly._

_“I . . . I never told Margot . . .”_

_That he knew it was her at the charity masquerade._

_That he was proud of her and her achievements in such a short time._

_That he felt something too._

_He raked his fingers over his face in frustration. He hadn’t felt such a mix of emotions in years. A conflicting cocktail brewed in his stomach, twisting it with anger and guilt. He didn’t know if he would cry or throw up. Didn’t know if-_

_“Tell me what, Professor?”_

_At the sound of her voice, he whipped around._

_Just outside the library doors, Margot stood, hands on her hips, flanked by Spencer “Crash” Yamaguchi and his entourage. The smile on her face was smug in a way he didn’t like, but he was happy – though shell-shocked - to see her anyway._

_“How?” he forced out weakly._

_At his words – well, word – the three students by his side instantly burst into cheers, joined quickly by Spencer and his equally self-destructively daring crew._

_Margot simply raised an eyebrow. “Did I just successfully prank the Thomas Hunt? Mr. ‘I-Will-Never-Be-Pranked-Successfully’ himself?”_

_“I believe you have,” Ethan snickered. “Is this the proudest moment of my life? Yeah. Yeah, it is.” He pulled out his cell phone and began furiously tapping away. “So many people owe me money now.”_

_Spencer and his friends whooped and descended onto the quad, doing quick jumps and flips over benches and potted plants. One ran onto the grassy knoll and began beating on his chest with his fists like an ape man, causing a small gathering of birds in the nearby tree to take flight._

_Thomas clenched his jaw as Lisa and Bianca began circling him like dodos, chanting their victory cry inharmoniously. “We pranked Hunt! We pranked Hunt! We! Pranked! Hunt!”_

_In all the cacophony, he stared Margot down as if he’d never seen her before. She had managed to do what many failed at. As much as he wanted to contest their words, say that he never actually thought she was gone, he knew already it was futile. From the commotion her friends were stirring, and how fast some of them were typing on their phones, it would be common knowledge by his next class with them that he had been had. No point in trying to dispute it._

_How had she done it? he wondered. Was Spencer and his friends waiting mere feet below the skylight, ready to catch her? Had they maneuvered a trampoline or curtain to break her fall?_

_At the latter thought, he scowled. They better not have torn down the projector screen._

_Margot came closer._

_“Miss Schuyler,” he said, moving to meet her in the middle, and thus breaking free from Lisa and Bianca’s strange dance. “I-”_

_“Accept defeat with a little dignity, Professor.”_

* * *

The Hollywood 101 class he taught the next day was almost intolerable.

Ethan and the other witnesses of the “prank to end all pranks” (as someone not-so-aptly put it) spread the news at an astonishing pace. They were all reaping the benefits of the successful trick, with Ethan collecting small wads of cash from students who had deeply believed that the attempt would fall apart like all the others, Bianca trying to claim the entire prank as her sole idea, and Lisa chanting that discordant cheer when Spencer and his crew regaled their side of the story.

All the while, Margot sat a little further away from the crowd, talking animatedly to Addison Sinclair with wild gesticulation that Thomas was unsure of how to go about interpreting. It didn’t seem like she was discussing the prank, though she was the main executor of the successful portion of it, and when he looked again, he was surprised to see Miss Sinclair close to tears.

Another roar of laughter came from the more crowded area in the lecture theatre, and Thomas shuffled a stack of papers rather aggressively against the angled wooden lectern. The loud laugher quickly sputtered into low giggles, then stopped once the students saw the icy expression on his face.

“Nothing on your desks except a pencil.” He picked up a stack of Scantron sheets and held them aloft, eliciting a groan from the crowd. “I hope you spent just as much time doing the required readings for this week as you did plotting juvenile – and unsuccessful – pranks.”

“Not all were unsuccessful,” a student stage-whispered, triggering another ripple of low laughter quickly squashed behind palms and sleeves. Lance Sergio tried to disguise his as a coughing fit, but, as he was a model major and not an acting major, failed miserably.

Thomas resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Stepping out from behind the lectern, he divided the Scantrons into smaller stacks and handed them to the students in the front row.

“Take one, pass it back, you know the drill,” he said flatly. “You’ll have an hour, and not a second longer. You’re all free to leave-” _me alone_ , he thought, “-once you have finished. Tests and Scantrons without names and student numbers will receive automatic zeroes.”

Then he retrieved the thicker stack of papers, the quiz booklets, and began handing them out at random. He recently made the decision to administer different versions of his exams with different questions and answer keys.

Although it generated a lot of extra work for him, it seemed to thwart attempts at his students cheating off one another, which ultimately reflected well on him and poorly on the students who hoped to coast through the class with minimal effort.

Once the tests had been distributed, he set a timer to be displayed on the projector screen and sat down at his desk to catch up on some grade recording.

The first chair screeched against the floor twenty minutes later. In that time, he had finished the files he needed to update and had begun drafting an email to the headhunter he had contacted a few weeks earlier. He’d also set up the two metal baskets in which they were to hand in their test papers.

From the corner of his eye, he saw a small hand tipped with light blue nail polish precariously drop the papers into the appropriate baskets.

Before the student had even stepped away from the desk, Thomas reached for the baskets and took the papers from it, glancing at the sheets to make sure they were completed.

The Scantron was neatly filled in appropriately. The booklet was similarly appropriately filled. But she’d also included in the quiz booklet . . .

“What is this, Miss Schuyler?” he asked lowly, trying his best not to alert the other students.

At his question, she froze in place. Though she immediately feigned a nonchalant expression, he instantly saw through it.

“What is what?” she whispered back.

He dropped the papers back into the baskets and leaned forward.

“My office. Noon.”

* * *

He found her waiting in a stiff metal folding chair in the hallway, a whole ten minutes before she was due to meet him there. She followed him warily into his office and immediately sunk into the seat facing his desk, like a lamb to the slaughter. He took his sweet time adjusting the angled wooden doorstop to keep the office door cracked at fifty-five degrees, removing his suit jacket and hanging it on a foam hanger that hung by the hooks near the door, removing his cuff links and rolling up his sleeves, and logging into his office computer.

Once he was situated and had no more delays, he looked her straight in the eye and brandished her yet-to-be-marked test papers before them.

“What is this, Miss Schuyler?” he asked again.

She crossed her arms over her stomach, trying not to look at him.

“I asked you a question. Twice now. I do not like repeating myself.”

Biting her lip, she leaned forward and flipped the booklet open, turning to the blank lined pages and sifting through them until she came to a stop.

Not all the back pages were blank, and he saw it right away.

“Explain yourself.” He straightened up in his seat, quietly savouring the feeling of his luxurious, buttery leather office chair after having sat in the lecture theatre’s wooden monstrosity while waiting for the last few students to finish their tests. “What did you hope to accomplish with this?”

“Did you even read it?” Miss Schuyler’s voice was quiet, her demeanour the opposite of the smug, smirking young woman from the day before.

He frowned.

She turned the booklet around and slid it across the desk. He glanced down, then turned his gaze back to her.

“It’s an apology,” she said, to fill the air around them with something that wasn’t silent staring. “For yesterday.”

Silence.

He made no move to read it.

Thomas raised an eyebrow. “Why . . . are you apologizing?”

Her face twisted in confusion. “I upset you. I – I broke your record. My friends have been running amok since it happened, telling people. I _humiliated_ you.”

His shoulder rose and fell in one swift motion. “You did.”

“You’re not mad about it?” she asked incredulously.

He let out a short, sharp huff.

“I’m _mad_ about it,” he said. “But I don’t understand why you’re apologizing.” He leaned back in his seat and sighed. “I hate to admit it, but I have to; I did not see it coming.”

“It wasn’t planned,” she admitted, and leaned forward a little in her seat. “You seemed so sure that our prank was over, and Crash and his friends were already in the screening room looking for us. And you were just so – so smug, it was driving me mad! So, I saw an opportunity and I took it.”

And then her and Miss Valentine’s words echoed back to him.

_“We really didn’t expect our plan to fall through.”_

_“You sure caught us in the act!”_

In hindsight, God, it was so painfully obvious.

He squeezed his eyes shut and massaged his temples. “How did I not see that? _Hear_ that?” he muttered to himself.

She smiled, a fraction of the mocking one he’d seen in the quad the day before. “Too busy gloating in your short-lived victory.”

“Right.” He nodded curtly. “Well done.”

She nodded towards her test booklet. “Is that all I’ve been called in here for?”

“No.”

He stood, then walked around his desk until he was by her left side. He looked down at her, studying the curious expression on her face, committing it to memory.

“I didn’t get a chance to say it before your friends went buck wild. But listen here. You may have won that day, Margot.” He leaned against the desk, appearing casual even with his deepening frown. “But mark my words . . . I _always_ have the last word.”

* * *

Later, when Thomas had returned home and began his usual tedious task of marking up the tests for the day, he saved Margot’s for last. And, after he was armed with his third glass of vintage merlot, he flipped to the not-blank page at the end of the booklet.

~~_Professor,_ ~~   
~~_Thomas,_ ~~   
~~_Professor,_ ~~   
_Professor Hunt,_   
_I’m sorry for pranking you and making you worry about me yesterday. I know there were better ways to go about it. I hope the other students and faculty go easy on you about it; it really was a last-minute decision and could have very easily gone wrong, so I understand your concern and justified anger._   
_Honestly, it was nice to see that you were worried. Makes me feel seen. Matter. Like I could disappear, and someone will actually care enough to look for me._   
_Anyway._   
_Sorry._   
_x Margot_   
_P.S. Sorry about the projection screen, too._   
_P.P.S. Sorry about the skylight, too._   
_P.P.P.S. If you were just faking being knocked out by the shelf, does that mean you felt me trying to slap you awake?_   
_P.P.P.P.S. Sorry for slapping you._


	7. 7. all filled up with things benign

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I’ll try to make you proud, she’d said. You already have, he wanted to reply.

* * *

Much like any other university, Hollywood University required a metric fuck-ton of paperwork to be submitted for approval of an extended leave of absence from classes. However, unlike most universities, Hollywood U encouraged such leaves, under the condition that they were for career-related endeavours, like a six-week film shoot overseas or back-to-back tapings of a new television show being optioned for one of the many streaming services. Not only would the student receive invaluable “real world” experience, a credit for their resume, and financial compensation, but the university could leverage the experience for positive publicity (and, therefore, receive financial compensation as well).

Though Hollywood U professors stressed the importance of finding work in the industry while studying, most of the students attending the university stuck to using their class projects as resume builders and spent their free time partying and cavorting around California. Those students typically found themselves scrambling to find work once they did graduate, as they had not built enough connections and rapport to be personally contacted for a job. It was sad to see aspiring directors and actors with untapped potential head back home with their heads down and dreams dashed.

 _Still_ , Thomas thought, _if Hollywood U wanted faculty and students alike to enthusiastically take part in school-sanctioned leaves, they ought to consider making the paperwork less tedious._

He stared down the stack of paperwork that Miss Schuyler had so kindly left for him to deal with. It wasn’t as thick as the stack Priya had once left him – a list of complaints and observations about the students she shared with him, which he promptly recycled, because even he had a limit to his negativity – but it was daunting to look at, especially since he knew that he had to carefully read every word of it to ensure that his student’s participation in Penn Cattrall’s yet-to-be-titled film wasn’t going to end the same way her experience with Clash at Sunset did.

And, of course, to see what he had to do to keep her on track with the rest of her peers. Of all her professors, he had been the obvious choice to administer the work she would need to complete whilst filming, and he was not looking forward to the extra work he would have to do for it.

Knowing there was nothing else to do but dive in, he set down his mug of coffee and situated himself in his seat, taking a moment to adjust the lamp on his desk before pulling down the first of the many stapled stacks.

* * *

Two and a half hours later, Thomas set down his third coffee refill and rubbed between his eyebrows. Behind him, the world beyond the window grew dimmer, and the hallway around his office swallowed up in silence. Certain he was the only one still in that wing of the school, perhaps even on that side of campus, he took a moment to get up and stretch, mind still whirring over everything he had read.

She was due to leave in three days’ time for France. The contracts he read didn’t say anything about the plot of the film she was leading, but he guessed by the extra paperwork regarding health and safety liabilities while filming in the catacombs of Paris that it had something to do with the horrors of being lost in a claustrophobic, labyrinthine setting surrounded by the dead.

Along with the liability clauses, there was a lot said about the safety of the stunt work she’d be performing herself, which he’d flagged with a sticky note. More sticky notes were used to mark certain lines that he needed further elaboration on, and parts of the contracts that seemed impossible to enforce from far away.

It had taken him what felt like eons to get to what was the most relevant part for him: the continuing education contract.

But the words that were so important for him to digest, as he would be the one to hold her to them, swam in front of his eyes as he quickly became lost in thought. Still stuck on the tidbits of information sprinkled within the documents, breadcrumbs that piece together a vague picture of what Miss Schuyler was to be doing during her six-week leave. It bothered him that he was so bothered, but he couldn’t help it.

_How was she going to react to being in the depths of the catacombs? She had difficulty just sitting in the dark for too long._

And then: _does she even know what she signed up for?_

Penn Cattrall _should’ve_ given her a copy of the script. _Should’ve_ given her a head’s up of what was expected (including the stunts that she was apparently doing herself). _Should’ve_ gotten to know her before giving her such a challenging role.

Thomas’s fingers hovered over the keyboard of his laptop before he even realized he’d opened it.

 _I should warn her_ , he thought. _What if she doesn’t know?_

And then that pesky second opinion in his head, another side of himself, countered, _She has to know already. After everything that happened with Anders Stone and Richard Sheridan, she would have read everything Penn Cattrall’s people sent over with a fine-toothed comb. She wouldn’t agree to this without knowing._

 _But what if she_ did?

Thomas slowly lowered his laptop’s screen and stared at the brand logo on the back. The edges of a small sticker, one from his college days that he’d stumbled upon when sorting his attic, were peeling off, and he pressed his fingers down to try and flatten them. It was a simple rectangular sticker of a quote. A memory of Yvonne purchasing him that sticker at a street fair near their campus bubbled up, but he pressed down with his fingers as if to pop it.

_The enemy of art is the absence of limitations._

Though he was remarkably awarded for a fairly new director, Penn Cattrall did not yet have the power behind his name to blow dozens of millions of dollars on a single film. It had taken Thomas two films and just as many Audrey Awards to get there himself. Though the estimated five million dollar budget for the film was nothing to scoff at, Thomas knew that, after taking into account the portion of the funds that would be exchanged for access to the off-limits areas in which they’d be filming, as well as all the equipment that would be used to capture the film and keep the cast and crew safe down below, the true budget of the film was going to be quite tight indeed.

That would be a limitation, a box that would force Penn Cattrall and his crew to think outside of it without breaking the bank or disrupting the production. It could be done; after Spielberg and the Jaws crew sunk so much money into creating the mechanical shark that famously rarely worked, the director’s decision to omit the sighting of the shark until much later in the film became one of the most memorable techniques to build suspense in film. Limitation worked then.

But Margot . . .

Since that night on that gaudy set, he wondered how she coped with the memories of her past. He’d seen her sitting in darkened rooms before – like in the auditorium watching Spencer Yamaguchi’s one-man musical – but there were still light sources, still a feeling of being among a crowd, of safety. But he’d also seen – well, heard - her on that set, crying to herself.

How would she react to long hours of being deep below ground, surrounded by the remains of those who passed long ago? Penn Cattrall wouldn’t be so cruel as to make her film in complete darkness, but the catacombs definitely weren’t known for making people feel safe. Nor, Thomas guessed, would the characters be in the catacombs with perfectly working light sources, if this was a horror film like all his others. Sure, there had to be breaks where they came up for air, food, and sunlight. But what of those hours of filming in near darkness, amongst death and decay?

Was her past her limitation?

More importantly, would – _could_ – she work with it?

* * *

“Miss Schuyler. Thank you for arriving on time _for once_.”

Displeased with being called into his office on a Friday morning, Margot lazily fell into the chair opposite his desk, her hands already tapping mindlessly on her thighs. Immediately diverting his gaze from her thighs – and the skirt she somehow considered appropriate enough to wear for such a meeting – Thomas cleared his throat.

“I’ve read through the paperwork for your extended leave,” he began. “Most of it is in order. I’ve already forwarded the very little I have issue with to be further reviewed by Penn Cattrall and Hollywood U’s lawyers.”

“Great,” Margot said, her voice flat and tired. “Is that all?”

He narrowed his eyes at her. “I do hope you don’t show this kind of attitude to Penn Cattrall, or you’ll be fired and blacklisted in this industry faster than Megan Fox in her Transformers days. This is a tremendous opportunity for any actor, and even more so for a newcomer.”

In the silence that followed his words, her head lowered. Her lower lip trembled. And his stomach twisted.

Where was the confident, cocky young actress determined to take Hollywood by storm? It was almost as if they were back on that damn set, drinking Snapple and letting their guards down little by little. This time, he could see her face, and he knew that the issue was not what he had just said to her, but something else. Something had been bothering her before she’d even come into the room.

His voice softened. “What happened?”

Margot immediately shook her head. “Nothing.”

“I know you,” he said before he could stop himself. “This ‘nothing’ is a ‘something.’ What is it?”

And when she finally looked up at him again, he stood at the sight of the tears spilling from her eyes. He moved quickly, taking the box of tissues he had set upon a shelf and maneuvering around his desk until he was standing by her side. Handing her a tissue, he leaned against the desk and took in her body language, noticing with grim certainty that she had been feeling off long before he’d even thought to discuss the paperwork with her.

She blew her nose. Then, with another tissue, she dabbed at her eyes and swept under the lower lashes, the tissue picking up some makeup on its way.

“Take your time,” he said.

 _Take your time?_ a part of him repeated. _Since when did you get so soft?_

Margot let out a deep, shuddering breath. Then, focusing more on the steadily growing pile of tissues she accumulated in one hand, she spoke.

“Up until a week ago, Penn Cattrall was sure that we were going to be filming entirely on a sound stage.” Her voice trembled, and she took a deep breath. “I – I was fine with that. A sound stage means that the lights come up, you step outside for some light, you know, no problem at all. But then . . . I don’t know how he got permission, but . . .”

She promptly pulled another tissue from the box and blew her nose into it. Thomas crossed his arms over his stomach, holding in his impatience.

_Don’t rush her; let her find the words._

“I don’t think I can do it,” she admitted, and then it was a rush of words like a flood headed downhill. “I’ve been trying – I mean, I’ve been practicing, rehearsing in my room in the dark, just a headlamp and a flashlight, all by myself but – I can’t do it, I can’t do it in my own bedroom, let alone the _fucking Parisian catacombs_ with the bones and the tunnels and – what if I get scared and then lost? What if – he said we’d be safe, but no one’s ever been permitted to film in the off-limits areas till now, and I – I’m _terrified_.” She buried her head in her hands. “How can I call myself an actress if I can’t get over this?”

He looked over her in silence.

“I’m going to ruin my career, and it’s just begun.”

Her words fell on deaf ears. Thomas began breathing slowly, deeply, and, while it clearly annoyed Margot, she caught on to what he was doing and matched his breaths. Inhale, hold, exhale, hold, repeat. Inhale, hold, exhale, hold, repeat.

When it seemed like she’d finally calmed, Thomas sighed. “The pressure you’re putting on yourself is not helping you. You will gain nothing from considering yourself a failure from the start. Your performance will be impacted by your thoughts. You will lose your starring role if you let this go on.”

“How do I stop it?” Margot cried. “You’re my teacher. _Teach me_.”

Thomas grimaced at the reminder.

“How do I get over this?” she asked.

“You don’t,” he said bluntly. “You simply learn to roll with it, as many other actors and artists before you have.”

Margot rolled her eyes. “Oh, great, another anecdote from your days on Battlefield Earth. I would’ve thought you’d told them all in class by now.”

“Mar- Miss Schuyler.” Thomas blinked a few times, reminding himself of decorum, of the rules he had to adhere to as a faculty member speaking to his student. “You’re not the first, and certainly not the last, actor working with their traumas and fears to complete a production. A simple Google search will tell you that a multitude of actors admit to feeling emotionally and mentally drained from the work they do that involves at least some aspect of their fears. For some, it is claustrophobia when filming in confined spaces for the majority of a film. For others, it is continual exposure to creatures or things that they may associate with terrible memories or have faced before and nearly lost. Fear of heights in an action film. Fear of large bodies of water and drowning after seeing such a thing happen in their childhood. And yes, fear of the dark and the unknown shrouded within it.”

She dabbed at her eyes with another tissue.

“You are not alone in your feelings. More to the point, you are not – and will not be – alone. You will never be alone like that again.”

She nodded.

And Thomas, quickly turning back to his desk, procured some papers from his desk and changed the topic.

“So, about your homework . . .”

* * *

_Production Progress Journal Entry 1:_

_Within the Parisian catacombs, there is a sign that says (according to Penn Cattrall, who translated it for me): “Stop! This is the Empire of the Dead."_

_They are not wrong._

_To say that I am far beyond my comfort zone is an understatement. More accurately, I’m far beneath it (twenty metres or so, in fact; thanks, tour guide Jack/Jacques)._

_Penn had arranged a special tour for the cast and crew, which was done in staggered batches of ten with a guide in front and a guide at the rear to keep everyone together. Honestly, they didn’t need to arrange it like that; I doubt that anyone, when within the Empire of the Dead, would branch away from the group when surrounded by dust and bones and stale air. The tour was apparently the same as any regular tour, though the “special” part of it came into play once we had reached a certain point within the catacombs, when the guides took us through a clearly marked off-limits area to show us one of the many places we’ll be working in under the direct supervision of several officials and safety officers._

_You think, once you’ve walked around in a cavern made of cadavers for forty or so minutes, you’d be relatively numb to the sight of another area stacked high with bones._

_I just . . . didn’t expect the first shots we’ll be filming to take place within such a microscopic tunnel._

* * *

_Thomas Hunt’s comments on Production Progress Journal Entry 1:_

_I am not surprised to hear of the extensive security and safety detail._

_I_ am _surprised that you didn’t expect to film in areas that may trigger claustrophobia._

_Have you done anything at all to help mentally and physically prepare for the shoot?_

* * *

_Production Progress Journal Entry 2:_

_On the plane ride to France, I’d started listening to the podcast “How to Find Peace Within Yourself: A Guided Meditation to Alleviate the Darkness and Manifest the Light.” Once settled in my temporary hotel home for the next six or so weeks, I made space on the floor and did partake in some of their suggested activities, including mindfully making a cup of tea and waking up at ungodly hours to sit in front of the window and focus on how the light of the sunrise felt creeping up my body._

_At about seven in the morning today, we made our first descent of many for this film into the catacombs._

_Approximately nineteen minutes later, a safety officer had guided me out, where I’d narrowly managed to reach a trash bin before I’d vomited up my breakfast._

_Manifesting the light through mindful tea making is_ bullshit _._

_Thank fuck it was only a rehearsal._

* * *

_Production Progress Journal Entry 2.5:_

_Just got out of a last-minute meeting/admonishment talk with Penn. From what memory serves, he told me that he was worried we’d both bitten off more than we can chew with this ambitious project. I know he’s trying to soften the blow of the underlying warning of his words._

_He is unimpressed. He has every right to be._

_Whatever he saw in me when he chose me is not present now, and I don’t know how to come back from this._

_I am not the only cast member who has to take frequent breaks from below; my co-star, Oliver Abel, is extremely claustrophobic. He has a scene planned for filming tomorrow that involves him squeezing through the aforementioned tunnel, and I honestly don’t know how he’ll pull it off._

_I hope he can do it._

_I hope we all can do it._

_I don’t want to lose this opportunity._

* * *

_Production Progress Journal Entry 3:_

_I don’t know if I can do what Oliver did._

_He’s managed to use his fear to power his performance, sobbing desperately and clawing at the tunnel walls. First take, best take, and while I’m proud, I’m also nervous._

_The past few days, Penn has allowed me to focus mainly on above-ground scenes while the crew gets more comfortable with working underground. But we’re running out of filler scenes to film. Soon, it will be my turn to wiggle atop a pile of bones (supplied by Penn’s affiliated prop company, and not the real bones of dead citizens) and plea for mercy._

_I don’t know how I’m going to do it._

_Especially if my headlamps malfunction, plunging me into darkness, as mentioned in the final draft of the screenplay I got a few hours ago._

_Help._

* * *

_Thomas Hunt’s comments on Production Progress Journal Entry 3:_

_You are too busy worrying about yourself that you are not learning from those around you._

* * *

The phone call came just before eight p.m.

Thomas had reclined in his favourite armchair, beat after a day of marking subpar assignments. His red pen had run out of ink halfway through an essay that was more a waste of paper and ink than an acceptable analysis on auteurist theory, and he’d had to switch from coffee to scotch after ripping apart Lance Sergio’s paper on Sophie’s Choice.

 _Really_ , how _is that boy still enrolled?_

The floor lamp positioned by his armchair went dark, and Thomas turned his head to look at it. He’d have to buy a new bulb for it. Been meaning to for a while now. Another thing to add to his ever-growing list of responsibilities and errands.

He blinked slowly at the shrill noise that broke the comfortable silence, realizing seconds later that it was his cell phone ringing. A number he didn’t recognize, with an area code he couldn’t place off the top of his head.

Still, he answered.

“Who is this?” he asked simply, leaning back into his chair.

Her hushed voice had him jolting straight up again.

“I can’t do this. Help me.”

Though he felt as though his blood has run cold, he kept his voice even as he asked, “How did you get this number, Miss Schuyler?”

“I have my ways.” She sounded on the verge of tears. “I’m scared. I don’t – I don’t think I can do this.”

And Thomas, being the level-headed, critical, highly regarded and rewarded director, actor, professor, and screenwriter that he was, sucked in a deep breath before replying.

“Yes, you can.”

“I can’t, I-”

Thomas’s voice was stern. “Margot. Did I not stand for you during your hearing? Do you think I said any of those things falsely? You have shown tremendous growth in such a short time. You led and assisted in multiple school projects. You have acting and producing credits for films that have been nominated – and won – awards.”

“I never had to do any of those things underground,” she argued, her teary voice giving way to a spark of anger. “I’m fine in front of a camera and behind it. I’m happy to be in the spotlight. But I can’t cope with this. Have you ever been to the catacombs? How lonely and suffocating it is to be so far below, hidden away from the world? I close my eyes for too long and it’s like I’m right back in that _fucking_ shed my mother pretended was a house.” Her voice broke on the last few words, and Thomas’s chest tightened.

Her words were met with silence until he had gathered his thoughts on how to assure her.

“The camera crew is there. Mr. Cattrall will be there. You will not be alone. At the first sign of distress, they will halt filming so you can regain composure.” His voice hardened. “You cannot quit now. You have just begun to soar.”

“I’m going to plummet face-first into bones and debris.”

Thomas huffed. “Perhaps. But you will get up again.”

She sniffled.

“Have you considered a therapist?”

“It’s a little late for that.”

“It’s never too late to take care of yourself,” Thomas admonished. “A podcast and meditation are good starts, but the way you react to things that remind you of your trauma is rather unhealthy and will stunt the growth – both personal and craft-wise – that you have already made.”

She said nothing.

He cleared his throat. “Does Mr. Cattrall know?”

She snorted. “All he knows is I’m a failure. I can practically hear him calling for my replacement as we speak.”

Thomas checked his watch, then strained to remember the time difference. Eight p.m. here was . . .

“Are you calling me _right_ before your shoot starts?”

He heard her take a sip of something. “I could barely sleep. I’ve felt sick to my stomach all night.”

“Margot, you are not making this easy for yourself.”

She snorted again. “It’s not going to be easy, period.”

Thomas sighed, running his fingers over one of the arms on his chair. “You need to tell Mr. Cattrall. A good director knows their performers. I’m sure he’ll be more lenient on you if he knew.”

“And be called a crybaby?” Margot snapped. “No, thanks.”

Thomas let out a huff of annoyance. “Margot, why are you even calling if you don’t want any of my advice?”

“Because . . . I don’t know anyone else who would care.”

Silence.

“Margot-”

“Miss Peaches is gone, and I can’t remember the breathing technique she taught me.” Her voice grew higher, hysterical. “I sleep with a lamp on because I can’t handle the feeling of being abandoned again. The few things I’ve filmed in darkness were done surrounded by dozens of crew members on sound stages where everything is predictable and there’s no threat of cave-ins or collapses.”

“Margot, listen-”

“You heard me that night on the set. You _know_ how it makes me feel.”

“I do. I did hear you. I know what you’ve been through.” Thomas’s voice, once again, became strangely soft, soothing. “Margot, you cannot let this hold you back forever. You will face it again and again. It’s not something one simply ‘gets over.’ You have to learn with work with it, and make it work to your advantage.”

She sobbed, and his throat went dry. “How?”

Thomas closed his eyes. His fingers pressed firmly against the arm of his chair, as if smoothing down the edges of a peeling sticker.

“‘The enemy of art is the absence of limitations.’”

He hadn’t realized he’d said it out loud until Margot spoke again, her voice shaky but still understandable.

“Orson Welles.”

He hummed. “He was my father’s favourite filmmaker. My parents rarely let me stay up to watch movies, but when a Welles was on, well . . . he made the popcorn, I sliced the jalapenos, and we sat together under his spell. It was one of the few times we actually got along.”

“You put jalapeno slices in your popcorn?”

Thomas smiled. “Don’t knock it till you try it.”

“I’ll stick with Reese’s Pieces, thanks.” She sounded a bit more upbeat, which he found encouraging.

So, while it wasn’t something he normally advertised, he admitted, “My father named me after him, actually.”

The sound of Margot’s laugh was like a burst of sunlight on his skin, warming and comforting. “Really? How so?”

“Orson is my middle name.” Thomas failed to keep the smile out of his voice. “I understand why he did it, given Welles’s impact on cinema, but it was tough just learning how to spell it when I was a boy.”

“I’m trying to imagine you as a child. All I see is a scowling little boy in a suit.”

“You wouldn’t be very far off.”

“So you’ve always worn suits?”

“My mother dressed me to impress. And to get made fun of.”

Every time she laughed, the weight on his chest lifted a little more. And he found that he couldn’t hold back his own laughter, even as he shook away the memories of playground bullies kicking dirt at him and scribbling on his sleeves with markers.

“Thomas?” Her laughter had died down, and her voice was timid.

“Yes?”

Margot sighed. “Thank you. I feel a little better now. I’ll try to remember what you said, about taking care of myself and getting up again.”

He nodded, as if she could see it. “Don’t forget the quote.”

“Right.”

There was a pause.

“Could you . . . elaborate further on that?”

Thomas rolled his eyes good-naturedly. “Limitations breed creativity. They foster growth beyond its restrictions. Take your co-star for example. Claustrophobic, yet he filmed his scene well. You wrote that his fear powered his performance, made it stronger. You feel limited by your trauma. But could you work with it and use it to add verisimilitude to your character’s journey?”

Margot, wherever in Paris she was, took a deep breath that sounded like a gust of wind into his ear. “I – I’m not sure.”

“You’ve fueled your performances before with your pain.” Thomas thought back to the first acting project she’d helmed since Clash at Sunset’s premiere, when Anders Stone tricked her out of millions of dollars. She’d played a fiery sidekick to her classmate Erik’s cliché cowboy, effectively stealing the show with how genuine her actions seemed to be. “You’ve used anger to your advantage. Pain is part of that realm. You do not have to be sure. You only have to try.”

In the background of her side of the call, he could hear someone talking to her. Then, Margot’s voice came back on the phone, apologetic.

“I have to go. It’s time.” She paused, then added, “Thank you. Really. I’ll try to make you proud.”

Thomas smiled to himself and said, “Don’t forget to do your progress report.”

* * *

Long after she’d hung up, he stared at his phone in silence.

 _I’ll try to make you proud_ , she’d said.

 _You already have_ , he wanted to reply.

* * *

He poured three more fingers of scotch into his glass and carefully selected two perfect ice cubes from the steel container on his drink cart. Flicking on a random channel, he attempted to absorb the film that was already midway through. Instead, it was a flashy, action-packed thing for his eyes to watch while his mind whirred behind them.

He wished he could stop replaying their phone call in his head. The way he’d told her his middle name, admitted he’d been bullied for being different, and encouraged her to use her vulnerabilities to her advantage.

The sound of a gun firing temporarily shook him from his thoughts. Shaking his head to clear his mind, he raised his glass to his lips.

* * *

There had been a time when, if Thomas strained his ears enough, he could hear the echoes of Yvonne’s laughter, her voice crooning for him to join her on an impromptu adventure as an attempt to make him socialize more. He rarely willingly tortured himself with the memories, but on a night like this, with too much scotch in his system and the living room’s burnt-out lamp bulb shrouding him in partial darkness, he settled into his seat and closed his eyes, expecting his mind to conjure up the image of the woman he had once loved and chose to lose.

He saw his fingers running through her long dark locks that stretched far beneath her shoulders, framing her face in gentle, inky waves that shone impossibly beneath the night sky.

Her eyes, framed by dark lashes, dark brown irises shockingly bright and intent on his face.

Her cheek pressing into his palm, eyes fluttering closed as she leaned into it further, as if his touch soothed.

A silver-blue gown’s skirt twirling around her legs as they danced.

A different ethereal silver-blue gown rendered diaphanous by the rainfall.

Her angular face, flushed from breathless kisses, illuminated by the bright colours of the fireworks display.

Her voice was a whisper that reverberated within his skull, words overlapping with different emotions.

_“Hunt?”_

_“Please, Thomas . . .”_

_“My feelings for you are_ not _fake.”_

His eyes shot open.

No.

_No, no, no._

What did Yvonne look like?

What did she sound like?

What was her last name again?

_Does it matter anymore?_

* * *

_Production Progress Journal Entry 4:_

_A wise man once told me that another wise man said, “The enemy of art is the absence of limitations.”_

_(Orson Welles, in case I have to give credit. This is a school thing, right? Do I need to put this in MLA/APA/whatever?)_

_The things I associate with darkness, particularly being alone in darkness, are my limitations. They make me feel sick to my stomach, bring tears that burn in my eyes until they fall, and make me want to avoid any and all scenarios in which I’d have to face them._

_I’ve fueled performances with my emotions before. I’ve used heartbreak to write a best-selling song and anger to light up a performance about a vengeance-seeking cowgirl. Certainly, I could do it again with this emotion, this sadness and pain._

_And I did._

_The pile of bones scene was terrifying, especially with the headlamp flickering on and off. But I knew I wasn’t alone, that despite the setting we were filming in, I was safe and seen. I was still scared, but I knew my character would be, too._

_I’d spoken to Penn Cattrall before filming the scene, and he’d told me that the pain I felt, if translated as well as Oliver’s claustrophobia was to his performance, made the struggles of my character real. He’s rewritten Oliver’s character to be claustrophobic, and he’s going to work on mine so that I can work through my fears._

_In half an hour (I’m on break with Oliver right now; enjoying a panini from a nearby café) I’ll be filming a scene with Oliver in another area of the catacombs, a microscopic chamber with a hole in the wall. We’re both terrified. And we’re both excited to try._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for being so patient with me, friends. I hope you're all doing well during this strange time. Let me know in the comments how you felt about this chapter if you want. Otherwise, have a good day. :)


	8. 8. no power over me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He meant no harm. A simple question. But it blew the wind out of her sails.

_The day she went with Elaine Peaches, Margot was so numb that she didn’t feel her knees scraping against the concrete when she tripped on the way to her house, or the hunger that rumbled through her body. Though she had been provided with jam-dotted cookies, water, and an apple, food after however many days alone only whetted her appetite. Her body ignored all pain signals (the scraped skin, the little rocks embedded in her palms when her hands broke the fall, her eyes’ sensitivity to light), focusing its energy on keeping her upright long enough to get to wherever she was being taken._

_The police had asked a lot of questions and she didn’t know the answers. She didn’t know her mother’s real name, or where anything that could have her name on it would be, or where she might have gone. Margot didn’t even know how long she had been waiting inside._

_“First time I saw her mother, she was on her way into the shed with some groceries,” Elaine Peaches had told the officers. “I thought it was peculiar for her to be keeping groceries in there, but Ned – Ned Kulpturn, the man who owns the big house - told me he’d rented the space out, fixed it up with amenities.”_

_“Ned Kulpturn.” One of the officers scribbled the name onto the paper balanced on his thigh. “Where might I find him?”_

_Elaine lifted one of her shoulders. “Beats me. Haven’t seen him since last Sunday. Sometimes he takes his boat and disappears for a week or two. Normal for Ned.”_

_As the adults kept talking, another officer – Bailey, according to her uniform - knelt by Margot’s side, offering her an apple she’d rinsed in the sink._

_“You’re a brave girl,” Officer Bailey said with a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “You were in there for a while.”_

_Margot only nodded, taking the apple in her hands. There was a bump on it that was darker than the rest of it, but it was otherwise perfect, like an apple she’d drawn. She dug her fingernail beneath the small sticker and peeled it off, pressing it to her bare knee while Officer Bailey looked on._

_The officer speaking to Elaine came over and joined Officer Bailey by Margot’s side. He was much older than his co-worker, graying hair on his temples and wrinkles sagging his face. He did not smile._

_“Margot,” the officer said quietly, “we’re going to need you to come with us now.”_

_Margot, whose mouth was already poised around the apple, pulled away from the fruit. “Why?”_

_Officer Bailey’s hollow smile reappeared. “You can’t stay alone here.”_

_“But I have already.”_

_Officer Bailey’s lips pressed together in a thin line, and she looked away, shoulders shaking._

_“It’s not safe,” the other officer said sternly. “You could get sick or hurt or worse without supervision. You’re . . . how old are you again?”_

_Margot threw her two hands up in front of her, fingers on both hands flying up to convey the number._

_“Seven. All right.” The officer rubbed his forehead. “Look, Margot, I know this must be scary, but we have to make sure you have somewhere to stay tonight and-”_

_“Wait.”_

_Elaine Peaches crossed the yard in a few strides and stood on Margot’s other side defensively._

_“I live next door,” Elaine continued. “I have a spare room with a bed all set up. I can keep an eye on her. It wouldn’t be any trouble. If her mother comes back, or if something happens, I’ll call right away.”_

_And, though Elaine and the officers kept talking over each other for a while, in the end Margot was pushing herself off the ground again and again on the way to the front door that led directly into the neighbour lady’s kitchen._

* * *

“Hold still.”

Margot tried not to move as one of the makeup artists rubbed more crumbled eyeshadow onto the skin where her costume was torn. Beside her, in the cramped (for lack of a better word) passageway, Oliver was getting similarly dirtied up, though his artists were circling him with a gun-like contraption that oozed fake blood with every squeeze of the trigger.

“It looks too neat. Remember, they’ve been through literal hell. He’s staring in the face of death. She’s beginning to accept that she may never escape.” Penn Cattrall’s strong voice echoed around the area. “I want them looking halfway to decayed.”

“Yes, Penn,” the artists said in unison, as if they had practiced it. Margot wouldn’t be surprised if they had; Penn Cattrall’s crew was mostly made of previous collaborators who’ve known him for longer than he’d been in the spotlight for his work.

Once her makeup artist, Milla, deemed her look suitably “halfway to decayed,” Margot sidled up to Penn to do their typical pre-take talk. It was something Penn implemented after seeing her and Oliver struggle through their first few scenes in the catacombs, and she was grateful for it.

“Miss Margot,” Penn Cattrall greeted, eyes glued to the monitor they’d squeezed into the part of the catacombs they were filming in. “Do you have any questions or concerns about the scene we’ll be tackling?”

Margot smiled. “No more than usual.”

Penn finally looked away from the monitor, nodding to himself at the sight of her bloodied skin peeking from beneath the torn fabric of her shirt and jeans. “You will do well.”

“I will.”

“Remember the signal if you need to stop.” Penn did the gesture, and Margot mirrored it. “Good.”

And then the director turned away and began barking orders, giving Margot the out she needed so she could escape back into the passageway and stick her head between her knees.

* * *

_“Do you think my mommy will come back?”_

_“Eat your cereal, Margot. It’ll get soggy.”_

_Margot made a face at the O-shaped bits in her bowl of milk. They didn’t taste like chocolate or sugar. And they were already soggy; the milk soaked in them as soon as Miss Peaches poured the cereal in._

_(Yes, Miss Peaches put the milk in first. Margot would always think that was weird.)_

_“Come on, Margot, or you’ll be late for school.” Miss Peaches reached up to fix her bun, which had two unsharpened pencils sticking out of it in weird angles._

_“Your education is important.”_

_“Why can’t I stay here with you today?” Margot argued. “My mommy let me stay home all the time.”_

_Miss Peaches frowned. “School is good. You will learn lots of things. Important things, like multiplication and division.”_

_“I hate math.”_

_“You_ dislike _math. Hate is a strong word for you to be using.”_

_Sensing that Margot was not going to shovel any more Cheerios into her mouth, Miss Peaches finally relented and had the garburator noisily make a mush out of the soggy remains. Then, she swung the bright blue backpack she’d purchased for Margot over her shoulder and held out her hand. Margot’s closed around it, and they slipped through the front door and down the steps._

_The school Margot had been lucky enough to get enrolled in late was not the best school – far from it, to be honest – but it promised an education, and that was what she needed. Miss Peaches had to sign a lot of papers to get her in, but she figured she had to suck it up; weeks had passed and neither Margot’s mother nor Ned had returned. She had allowed Margot to stay home for the first two weeks while they both got used to each other, and because Margot was visited often by Officer Bailey, who always had a new question that she couldn’t answer. But it was time for her to go to school and keep her on track, so off she went. She’d been attending it for a little more than a week and was still dragging her feet whenever they made the walk over as if it were the first day all over again._

_“I’ll be here at two-thirty to pick you up,” Miss Peaches said, holding out Margot’s backpack while she readjusted the Velcro on her shoes._

_Margot nodded._

_And Elaine Peaches watched Margot walk through the doors, standing there until she couldn’t see the bright blue backpack through the window anymore, before heading home._

* * *

“Action!”

Oliver lay on the ground, leg bent in an unfortunate angle that exposed bone and pulp. A pool of blood slowly grew beneath him. Beside him, on her knees, Margot held one of his hands between both of hers, fingers lightly tracing the rune he’d cut into his palm in an earlier scene.

“We’re almost out,” she said, and even she could hear the falseness in her words. “Just hold on.”

“No.” The urgency in Oliver’s voice was tinged with his obvious pain. “You can still . . . make it.”

Margot pressed a hand to his head wound, closing her eyes upon feeling the blood rushing between her fingers. “Don’t leave me here, Peter. You promised.”

Oliver choked. “I’m so s-sorry.”

Margot began to cry, cowering over his body as he slowly slipped away. She let the tears fall onto his clothes, and did what came naturally to her, like raking a bloody hand through her hair as she sobbed.

And then the flashlight she’d propped up in the middle of the passage died, plunging her into darkness.

Margot felt her heart seize upon being cloaked in mostly darkness. A little light came from where the camera had been set up, and she knew that Penn was using a night-vision lens that would capture her movements even in the dark.

But still, the tears that slid down her face were real.

She remembered ants on a peeling windowsill, searching for crumbs on that cold concrete floor.

An unnecessarily loud sob tore from her throat.

And then, as if a ghostly hand had pressed itself against the small of her back, she was surged by a memory, a small comfort, a glow in the darkness.

_You are not alone._

_There are people here._

_You will never be alone like that again._

She ground the palm of her mostly clean other hand into her eyes, as if to suppress the tears she allowed to spill over anyway. Then, she scuttled over to her flashlight, shook it a few times, and flipped its switch. Enough light for her to see the only other hole in the passage that she could go through. Big enough for her to fit into, but not much bigger than that.

Setting down the light, she lifted one of her legs and notched her feet into the hole. Then, with her hands on the top, she pushed herself through.

Or, at least, she did a pretty good job of pretending.

“Cut.”

One of the crew members flicked on the lights. Another helped Margot out of the hole they’d built into a false wall they had to make, disassemble, bring into the catacombs, and reassemble. The makeup artists circled like vultures, descending upon Oliver as he opened his eyes and blinked at the bright light.

“I think we got it.” Penn checked the monitor again, before clapping his hands twice. “Nineteenth time’s the charm.”

“Up we go?” asked a makeup artist hopefully, already zipping up their touch-up bag.

Penn smiled. “The usual people stay behind. Everyone else, great work today. Rest up. Tomorrow’s a big day.”

“Every day’s a big day,” a boom operator named Jaime retorted.

At the director’s words, Margot strained to remember what was planned for the next day’s shoot. They’d conquered Peter’s death scene, most of the traps, and the first appearance of the Presence, so . . .

“Your call time will be early tomorrow, Miss Margot,” Penn reminded her as Oliver began ushering her out. “Come ready with energy to fight.”

Oh. Right.

_That_ scene.

* * *

After grabbing dinner with some of the crew, Margot returned to her hotel room to unwind after yet another exhausting day “in the ’combs,” as Milla called it. She indulged in a bath in the old-school clawfoot tub in her spacious bathroom. Steeped tea without doing the mindfulness bullshit. And finally, wrapped in a fluffy robe with the hotel insignia stitched into the lapel, she opened her laptop.

_No new comments._

The production progress journal entry she’d inputted the night before had been seen, as per the checkmark next to the date. But no comments. No smart aleck responses or biting criticism about her “bordering-on-whiny progression notes” from the man eight hours and an ocean away.

She really missed them.

The responses.

Oh, who was she kidding?

She missed Hunt. She missed _Thomas_.

She missed whoever he was when he spoke to her, for sometimes she swore he was a hybrid of both identities, of both people she knew he was and could be. Sharp, critical, cold. Thoughtful, heartening, spirited (well, as spirited as Thomas Hunt could get).

He seemed not to care anymore, now that her and her limitation have learned to co-exist long enough for the cameras. After the phone call she’d made the morning of her first solo shoot in the catacombs, and the resulting entry about how she’d managed it, his replies went from encouraging to non-existent.

She felt hollow every time she opened the program and found a checkmark next to the last entry’s date, but no little pencil symbol indicating a reply.

It had been like that for too long.

Still, she started a new entry and wrote the expected things. How she was doing, how the production was going, how she dealt with the scenes she shot that day, and so on. And then, wholly unsatisfied, she submitted the entry and tucked herself into bed.

_Tomorrow’s a big day_ , she reminded herself.

* * *

_Her sobs rend the night, shaking Elaine from her dreams of muscular men on horses with billowing white shirts and flowing hair. She pulled herself out of bed and padded barefoot into the hallway, stopping just outside the spare room’s door. She held her breath and listened, then knocked upon hearing another wail._

_“Margot?”_

_Elaine twisted the knob, and the door swung open with a creak loud enough to wake the dead._

_Margot sat on the centre of the bed with her forehead balanced on her knees. The only source of light came from the moon illuminating the room through the spaces between the blinds, casting a bluish light about the sparsely furnished room Elaine had originally planned to convert into a home studio._

_Elaine flicked on the light, and Margot’s head snapped up to look at her._

_“Margot, what happened?” Elaine came over to her and pressed a hand to her forehead. “Are you sick?”_

_Margot’s voice was watery. “I miss my mommy.”_

_Elaine smiled sadly._

_“Margot, sweetie.” Elaine sat beside the girl’s legs. “What can I do to help you feel better?”_

_Margot stared up at the ceiling light, blinking into the brightness like it was the most beautiful thing she’d ever seen. The streaks of tears on her cheeks shone._

_“Bottle the sun so my room never gets dark,” she replied._

* * *

Long before she’d enrolled in Hollywood University, Margot amused herself by watching movies and guessing how they’d filmed parts of them. Any and all live-action movies that had CGI character components, like a certain reboot of a beloved animated children’s show, brought her joy to dissect, watching scenes over and over again to see how the actors coped with talking and acting seriously to something that, at the time of their filming, was a silly prop stand-in, like a tennis ball mounted on a mini-tripod that would later be digitally replaced with a fan-favourite lightning-blasting rat-like creature.

She’d seen behind-the-scenes videos of how certain cinematic creatures were filmed, like the faun in Pan’s Labyrinth, with the green screen suit that hid Doug Jones’s lower legs that were not part of the end result look. After that, she usually imagined a person or a small team of people puppeteering the creatures, squinting to see if she could tell where the creature’s body ended, and the green screen suit began.

She didn’t think too much about how horror movies might use the same techniques. She was more focused on the fantastical elements.

But now, staring at the figure fully encased in a green screen suit, she realized she definitely should have looked into it before.

“Miss Margot.” Penn beckoned her to come over to where he and the green-suit stood before the monitors. “We are just placing the mats, then Erika will work you two through the blocking.”

The green-suit seemed to look at her. She couldn’t tell; there were no holes for the eyes or mouth, but the indentations indicated that there was indeed a nose and lips under there.

“Hi,” she said to it.

The green-suit did not respond.

“This is a pivotal moment in the film,” Penn continued. “The Presence is upon her. She either fights or dies, and she has come too far and lost too much.”

She nodded along with his words.

“We will most likely have to reshoot parts of this on the sound stage,” Penn admitted, “but we hope to capture most of the scene here. The more authentic, the better.”

“And the less work the editors have to deal with,” chortled Lewis, the boom operator for the day.

* * *

The stunts for the day weren’t hard to do, especially since they’d picked a surprisingly spacious area to film in. They took take after take, adjusting for different angles, and though she found herself embarrassingly out of breath by the time Penn called for their lunch break, she had to admit that she was relieved that the green-suit was there to guide her movements and ground her desperate struggle to survive in realism.

After all, it would be pretty hard to fight and tumble with thin air and make it look convincing.

She smiled upon reaching the surface with her group – “Buddy system!” Lewis crowed – soaking in the sunlight while pinching her nose shut at the smell of piss that seemed to waft around the area. As she made her way to her favourite panini stand, she watched as the green-suit slipped into a nearby trailer and closed the door behind them. There was no name on the door.

“Hungry, are we?” Milla slung an arm around Margot’s shoulder, catching up with her stride easily. “You’ve probably burned more calories today than I have this whole year.”

“Feels like it, too.” Margot rolled her shoulders back. “I have to admit, the green-suit person makes it pretty easy to be scared.”

They reached the stand and made their orders to the kind old man who ran it. As he layered smoked salmon, spinach, and creamy cheeses between slices of bread from the market a short walk away, they sat and chatted on a nearby bench.

“Who’s the green suit, anyway?” Margot asked. “I tried to ask for their name, but they weren’t talking. Method actor, I guess.”

Milla took a sip from her water bottle. “Oh, yeah. I have no idea, either.”

“Do you think that’s, like, on purpose, us not knowing?” Margot watched the old man press the paninis on a grill pan.

Milla rolled her eyes. “Probably. I can never tell what Penn’s got up his sleeve.”

“He’s very accommodating,” Margot said. “I mean, between you and me, I was giving him absolutely nothing to work with at the start. Though, in hindsight, I guess it was pretty obvious.”

“He’s not yet hardened by Hollywood,” Milla replied. “I kind of doubt he will ever be just like the other directors preening on red carpets and delegating their work to lesser knowns who won’t get credit for it.”

“And dating nineteen-year-old models when they’re in their late sixties,” Margot added.

“Yeah, what is up with that? Every time I see someone more than three times my age, I don’t think, ‘Wow, a viable sex partner.’ I think, ‘Cryptkeeper.’”

Their laughter was explosive, scaring away the nearby birds pecking at crumbs.

“Maybe it’s a sugar baby thing?” Milla guessed. “I mean, why else would a twenty-something bombshell play with some old dude’s saggy-”

“Shh, Milla!” Margot clapped a hand over her mouth. “I don’t want the mental image, thanks.”

“Mademoiselles,” called the panini man.

“Saggy,” Milla whispered into Margot’s ear as they headed up to the stand.

* * *

After they ate, Margot came up and put a few bills in the tip jar without looking the kindly old man in the eyes.

* * *

She was choking, choking, and she was sure she was going to die.

Her fingers raked along the floor of the passage, trying to find something to grip onto, to give her leverage to buck off the Presence climbing over her. Her fingers closed around the wrist strap of her now-broken flashlight.

She struggled under the Presence’s hold. Grinding her teeth together, she mentally chanted that empowering line that always came to her now when filming in the dark before letting herself go limp. Tears spilled down her face. Her eyes began to close. She mouthed something to the air, an apology, an acceptance.

“Pete – Peter -”

Her grip loosened on the wrist strap.

The Presence slowly climbed off her, walking backwards to the wall from which it burst through.

She silently counted to ten.

Then her eyes sprang open, and she gasped for air, hands rubbing at her throat in confusion.

“Cut!”

Margot looked up at the green-suit, who silently offered their hand.

“Thanks,” she said.

They nodded at her before turning to look at the monitor.

* * *

“I think we’ve got it all for today.”

Penn was practically glowing, and everyone on set felt its warmth. It was a stark contrast to when production began, and the two leads kept getting panic attacks or violently ill. Now, the energy was infectious. And, since everyone had the next day off, there were whispers of finding a bar or club to loosen up at after the shoot.

Margot just wanted to go to her room and bury herself beneath her bed’s thousand-thread-count sheets. Maybe order Labyrinth, one of her favourite fantasy films, to watch on repeat until the next shoot. But a drink, especially after being tousled around by someone whose identity was still unknown to her, sounded good, too.

As the crew packed up, Penn shouted, “Don’t go too wild tonight and tomorrow! Your days off are for rest and recuperation. I do not want to hear of sprained ankles.”

“Yes, Penn,” Margot said in unison with the rest.

* * *

Two cocktails, one shot, and a hit off Lewis’s dab pen later, Margot felt like she was floating a foot above the ground.

Kamil, a member of Penn’s regular film crew, had found the nightclub with the private room and texted the address to every person in the production group chat. He had bought the first round, dedicating it to “their whip-cracking director and his wild-ass ideas,” then disappeared into the crowded dance floor with a few other crew members. Oliver had shown up and downed three shots before he and Milla took refuge in the corner to make out. And then Jaime had dragged Margot out for a dance, which turned into two, which turned into three, before Lewis and a few other guys from the crew she had barely interacted with usurped her for dances.

Her hands were on some tattooed, muscular forearms, and she didn’t quite know what she was doing with the rest of her body, but she was having fun. Her dancing partner was handsome, almost clichély so, and she sort of wanted to cry over how pretty his eyes were. In the strobe lighting, they flashed green and gold. The musky smell of his cologne clashed with a nearby dancer’s classy perfume, and the mix of those scents made her press her thighs together.

She impulsively ran her fingers through his dark hair. Ran a finger over his sharp jawline, his high cheekbones, the lone freckle just beside his nose. He leaned down, for he was so, so tall, and pressed his mouth to her neck.

“You got a boyfriend, _Miss Margot_?” teased the man she was dancing with.

He meant no harm. A simple question.

But it blew the wind out of her sails.

She began to touch the ground again, and everything around her was discordant. The flashing lights, the lit-up dance floor, the writhing bodies bouncing and grinding. A mouth against her ear, whispering something about a hotel and making her feel good.

She pushed him away.

The shock on his face morphed into worry. “Are you all right, Margot?”

“I-” She swallowed hard. “I’m tired.”

She was. She felt like her body had reserved all its tiredness until that moment and dropped it upon her like she was some cartoon villain standing under the conveniently placed anvil.

“I’ll walk you to your hotel.” At her look, he held his hands up. “Not to, you know. I just want to make sure you get there.”

* * *

True to his word, the man walked her to her hotel, distracting her from the darkness between lamp posts with small talk and pointless stories. He offered his jacket and his arm, both of which she took gratefully.

“You didn’t answer my question,” he reminded her.

“Which was?”

He smirked. “Is there a boyfriend waiting for you at home?”

Margot wanted to match his smirk but was too tired to bullshit. “There’s no one waiting for me at home.”

His eyebrows rose. “I doubt that.”

“Don’t. It’s true.” She shrugged as they entered the hotel lobby. “Just how it is for me.”

“So, just to be clear,” the man said, “no boyfriend.”

“Nope.”

“Girlfriend?”

“Nope.”

He hesitated. “Anyone under the impression that they may be in a relationship with you, whether it’s exclusive or not?”

She burst out laughing, startling the clerk behind the counter.

“How specific,” she remarked dryly.

It was his turn to shrug. “Can’t be too careful these days.” He cocked his head to the side. “So . . . ?”

Margot thought of dark hair, dark eyes, suits.

_You are not – and will not be – alone. You will never be alone like that again._

He had not replied to her. Had not spoken of the masquerade, of that night on the set, of the date auction, of the Fairy Kingdom Formal. She did not know how he felt about her or them, other than how it “cannot be.” He had shown his kinder side to her time and time again, but did that mean anything?

To her knowledge, her feelings were unrequited.

And there was a handsome man standing in front of her, kind and courteous and funny, to whom she felt attracted, who certainly would not give her the cold shoulder or tear her self-esteem down if she kissed him right now.

She did not doubt he’d be a man of his word, making her feel good.

Still, she reached up and pressed her palm against his cheek. He leaned into her touch, and she smiled.

“Thanks for walking me back,” she said.

He nodded. “Thanks for humouring me.”

* * *

It was only when the elevator was rocketing her up to her floor – alone – that she realized she didn’t catch his name.

And that it didn’t really matter.

Not then, anyway.

* * *

_Production Progress Journal Entry 24:_

_Today was one of the hardest days. I had to fight the entity known as the Presence, which was physically portrayed by someone in a green screen suit who never actually identified themselves to me or the rest of the crew. I suspect Penn knows who it is, but he didn’t volunteer the information._

_Anyway._

_Four weeks into production. We’re right on schedule, which is apparently very rare for a film production. Within the next two weeks, we’ll be working on the sound stage._

_I’m sure you’re wondering how I’m coping. It’s going okay. I think I’ve found a failsafe way for me, and it really doesn’t require a lot of work on my part._

_If the great Thomas Hunt has ever deigned to watch it, he would know from which movie I had adopted my mantra, which I repeat to myself during harder parts of filming:_

_“You have no power over me.”_

_I’m learning a lot about myself and what I can handle. I won’t let what happened to me hold power over me anymore. At least, not enough to interfere with what I’m most passionate about. I want this film to be something I am proud of._

_And so far, I am._

* * *

After submitting her entry, Margot slipped into the bathroom to wash off the grimy feeling the nightclub left on her skin. The hotel provided adorable miniature bottles of body wash and hair products, and she used a sample of a hair mask she’d gotten with her last Sephora order. On a whim, she decided to hop into the tub, using a complimentary bath bomb that smelled of citrusy sweetness and had a core of dried rose petals and lavender buds that clung to her body. She had to hop back into the shower to rinse them off.

More than an hour later, she stepped out of the steamy bathroom to a notification on her laptop.

_One new comment._

* * *

_Thomas Hunt’s comments on Production Progress Journal Entry 24:_

_I am_ well _aware of 1986’s Labyrinth, thank you very much._

_Still, I’m pleased to hear that you are coping. You are working with your limitation. Perhaps it’s not much of one now._

_Good luck with the rest of your production, Miss Schuyler. Professor Singh will be marking these entries from hereon out._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again! Hope you're all doing well.  
> I really appreciate all the kudos and comments this lil fic has received. Thank you all so much for reading.  
> I'll admit that I have maybe four more chapters (not that there's four chapters left in this story ;) we've only just begun!) written and ready to be posted, so hopefully I will be updating this again very soon :)


	9. 9. just as i can be so cruel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He wasn't avoiding her. He was just . . . creating space.

* * *

In his youth, he didn’t take many vacations. Once his career took off, there were always projects to work on, screenplays to correct, crew to assemble. The mere thought of delegating those tasks to someone else so he could get a sunburn in Mexico or food poisoning in Italy gave him hives. He’d worked so hard to get to where he was that he didn’t want to miss a thing. And, after the disaster that was Marionette, where he’d given up creative control just to get it in theatres, he vowed never to allow another person to have the final word on anything in his productions.

It shocked even him that he announced a last-minute week-long trip. It was an impulsive decision, as was appointing Priya to mark Miss Schuyler’s production progress journal and the rest of his classes’ work. He wouldn’t be gone for long, and Priya herself had threatened to drag him back by his Adam’s apple if she had to cover him for more than a week on such short notice.

He’d booked his flight and hotel room in a single package, barely blinking at the exorbitant cost of the luxurious suite he’d be occupying while he was away. Hollywood University didn’t pay nearly enough – and he argued this every time he saw the dean after dealing with one of Lance Sergio’s atrocious projects – but his earnings from his directing days were more than enough to keep him in ridiculously high thread-count sheets for decades still. He knew what he liked, and he liked lavish.

So, when he woke up in a king-sized bed overlooking the skyline as the sun slowly rose, he allowed himself to stretch his arms behind his head and indulge in the view of the city that never slept.

Los Angeles was his home, but New York City was his sanctuary. He enjoyed the invisibility the crowds offered – though he was much less enthused by the big line-ups and the pickpockets – and the less aggressive response people had to recognizing him. It seemed an unspoken rule in the city not to act a fool or crowd them when in the presence of a public figure, especially one who was not known for indulging such tomfoolery, and he was grateful that he only had to offer a nod to get whoever had seen him to leave him be.

Occasionally, he did give autographs and lean into horribly angled selfies. He wasn’t a completely heartless robot. He was especially giving to people who referred to his work in film more than his physicality. (Yes, he’d modelled when he was younger. Tuition wasn’t cheap. But if he had to choose between signing an 8x10 of him lying on a “beach” in tight briefs or an amateur drawing of himself that looked more like Mr. Bean in a tuxedo, he’d choose the latter every time.)

His eyes were closing again when his cell phone rang.

Of course.

“This better be important,” he snapped, not even glancing at the caller ID.

“Why is Professor Singh marking my work?”

He groaned. “Miss Schuyler, please do not call me.”

Before she could get another word in, he hung up, flung the phone onto the overstuffed armchair beside an opulent lamp in the corner of the room, and buried his face beneath the hotel’s downy pillows.

He had quite a few semesters’ worth of sleep to catch up on.

Or at least that’s what he told himself he was doing.

* * *

He wasn’t avoiding her.

He was just . . .

Creating space.

Reminding himself of the boundaries between them.

Shocking some sense into his system.

* * *

The woman sitting behind a beautiful, custom-designed and built mahogany desk backdropped by walls of gleaming windows smiled as he stepped into her office. As nearly all the furniture was made of modern shades of gray, black, and cream, the woman’s red hair, bold one-shoulder velvet ensemble, and crimson smile instantly captured his attention.

“Thomas Hunt. To what do I owe this lovely surprise?”

 _Cliché_ , Thomas scolded himself, even as he returned her smile. _You’re so fucking cliché._

The redhead slid out from the plush office chair she had been sitting in and engulfed him in a hug that lasted much too long to be platonic. When she eventually pulled away, she remained close, and ran one of her long fingernails along his jawline, smiling at his carefully controlled face.

“What brings you here?” Marianne Delacroix purred.

He tried to maintain his indifference, tried to pretend like his body wasn’t reacting to her like it always did whenever he met up with her. “I was in town; thought I’d drop by.”

“I’m glad you did. So much to catch up on.” She stepped around her desk and gestured for him to sit in one of the chairs opposite hers. He lowered himself onto the white velvet seat and sighed.

“It’s the middle of the semester, Thomas,” Marianne continued. “It’s always a pleasure to see you, but . . . why are you here?”

 _Why_ are _you here?_ Thomas asked himself.

“I had a meeting,” he lied. “Making arrangements with some designers for this fall’s Fashion Week.”

“Fall? Thomas, it’s barely-”

He interrupted, “I like to be ahead of the game.”

She steepled her fingers, intrigued. “Are you planning on returning to the catwalk?”

“God, no. I’m to arrange for a few students to accompany me on my trip then. Give them some ‘real world insight and experience’ into the fracas that is Fashion Week.”

“Hmm. Which designers are you contacting?”

“Franco Laconi, Zac Posen,” he said, giving the first names he remembered seeing in the newspaper he’d read during breakfast. “Perhaps Vera Wang.”

“Might you be interested in sending your students my way?” Marianne asked. “I would be more than happy to help you out. And Faux Pas is always scouting for fresh talent.”

“I assume by ‘fresh talent,’ you mean ‘desk jockeys.’”

“Precisely.”

He smirked. “I’ll keep that in mind, Marianne.”

“See that you do, Thomas.” She tucked some hair behind her ear and smiled. “Well. Apart from your duties as a professor, what else is going on in your life?”

_There’s a student I think I’m falling in-_

_There’s this girl. A woman. A treacherously beautiful, captivating, young woman-_

“Not much,” he said, boosting his lie with a shrug. “My students give me migraines, their projects are banal, and I am starting to reconsider that plan we made when we were so young and stupid.”

Her smile grew mischievous. “The one where we jumped ship on our careers and lived in Maui?”

“I’m more interested in the Maldives these days.” He wasn’t, but there had been an article about it that morning, too.

“So cliché, Thomas.”

“As if Maui isn’t.”

The phone on Marianne’s desk rang, and she glanced at it with disdain. Sensing that it was important, Thomas stood and brushed at the lapels of his jacket.

“Don’t let me keep you,” he said.

And though she answered the phone, balancing it between her shoulder and ear, she called out to him as she left.

“Dinner tonight. Six o’clock. I’ll call you.”

* * *

The restaurant was packed for a weekday evening, but that wasn’t much of a surprise given its reputation. Marianne had called Thomas and instructed him to meet her at Eleven Madison Park, one of the more infamously known spots in the city. He had been there a few times before (with different company, though he honestly didn’t remember their names; those dates happened post-Yvonne and pre-Priya, when he was newly wealthy and recognized with his first Audrey Award win). It was just as bourgeoisie as he’d remembered; even the wine menu, which boasted more than ninety different varieties, not counting the seasonal offerings, felt excessive.

Though, of course, it wasn’t a date.

It wasn’t.

Not at all.

He glanced over at his dinner companion, who perused the dessert menu with utmost concentration. She’d changed from her earlier ensemble into some designer-label dress that clung to her body in distracting ways.

 _Do not have sex with her_ , he reminded himself.

Their relationship had ended years and years ago, when she’d left to pursue her editorial career and he’d stayed in Los Angeles for his directorial ambitions. However, what they occasionally did together was much less defined. On work trips where one was staying near the other, they met up for dinner and typically fell into bed together “for old times’ sake.” The last time had been when she was last flown into Los Angeles, days before that Love is Everywhere set field trip. She’d shown up at his house and fused her mouth with his the moment the front door shut behind her.  
He felt oddly nostalgic about it, even though it was clear to him that Marianne anticipated a similar encounter that very evening.

_Do not have sex with her._

_Is it wrong to want to do it, even with someone else on my mind?_ he wondered. _To love the one I’m with, because I can’t be with the one I want? The one I can’t have?_

In his mind’s eye, he could imagine Marg – Miss Schuyler – _her_ – sitting across from him, rolling her eyes at the astronomically priced dessert selection. He couldn’t picture her in the dress Marianne wore, instead replacing it mentally with a swath of soft fabric in that silver-blue shade he had seen her in twice now. Her lipstick wouldn’t be blood-red; he’d seen her apply lip gloss in class, slicking on a shiny rosy layer without needing a mirror to guide her.

She had such soft lips. Lips that tasted sweet, but not cloyingly so.

Thomas tugged at the collar of his shirt uncomfortably.

Across from him, his very real dinner date – _companion_ , he reminded himself – smiled at him. Even in the dim lighting of the restaurant, he could tell that her deep green eyes dipped from his face to his chest and then to his fingers holding the stem of his glass. She bit on her lower lip and lowered her gaze to the menu again.

If he recalled correctly, she too had soft lips. Lips that magically never transferred its scarlet hue to his, no matter how intense their kisses became.

And they did get intense when they got into it.

Thomas’s lips pressed against the curve of his wine glass as he practically inhaled its contents. The wine was truly remarkable, but he needed to slow down. Now was not the time to make rash decisions.

_Jesus Christ, Thomas. Do not have sex with her._

“My god, they still have lavender vanilla bean crème brulee,” Marianne chirped. “I’m feeling nostalgic. Shall I order you the same, or would you like your usual tiramisu?”

He poured another glass of wine, mentally giving himself the middle finger. He was a grown man. He could hold his alcohol. He could drink without making terrible choices that his inebriated ass already knew would only bring about regrets.

“Or shall we indulge in these ‘deconstructed desserts’ they have? How _does_ one deconstruct a macaron and justify charging thirty-five dollars for it?”

He took another gulp, closing his eyes at the slightly sweet aftertaste, the dryness of the wine.

“Thomas.”

He opened his eyes, finding Marianne watching him curiously. Embarrassed, he dabbed at his mouth with a cloth napkin.

“I’m sorry, Marianne. I am . . . quite enjoying the wine.”

Marianne giggled, a girlish contrast to her classy appearance. “It appears so. I’ll have to catch up to you during dessert. But we might have to purchase a bottle for you to add to your collection.”

Perhaps it was the wine, or the way she was looking at him, but he felt . . .

_Do NOT have sex with her._

His eyes dropped to the menu. Anything to avoid looking in her glittering emerald eyes, the ones he once used to imagine himself peering into every time he woke up, with her hair strewn over his pillows . . .

“Tiramisu,” he said decisively.

* * *

_You’re making a huge mistake._

“Thomas,” she breathed.

He pressed his mouth to her neck and ran his tongue over the nape. She held herself closer to him, running her fingers through his hair as she rose on her toes to bite his earlobe. Just like he liked it.

They knocked over a lamp on the way to the bed. She slipped easily out of her heels and was working with the hidden side zipper of her dress. He leaned against the edge of the bed, untucking his shirt, and pulling at his tie.

She was on him again, straddling his lap, mewing as she rotated her hips over his. His hands wandered over her body, feeling her familiar curves. She reached for his belt buckle, then began pulling it through the loops.

Their mouths met again and again, each kiss harder than the last. Her kisses were fuelled by lust. He just wanted to feel something, anything.

She pushed him onto his back and pulled his suit pants to his feet. Slipped her panties off, threw them in an inconsequential direction. Straddled one of his thighs and rubbed her wetness against him. Her warmth made him groan.

“Thomas,” she whispered, running her fingers over his length, feather-light teasing touches that made him thrust his hips into her hand. “Oh, _yes_. Please, Thomas.”

And Thomas, who had been so into it, who had been letting the wine blind him from what he was really doing, who was trying to feel something from all this, pushed her hands away and shook his head at her.

_This is all wrong._

_Why am I doing this?_

_What will I gain from this?_

_Did I fool myself into thinking an orgasm or two was going to make me forget about her?_

“Please . . . just go.”

He paid no attention to the offended woman gathering her clothes, leaving him in a huff. Her spat words fell on deaf ears as he trembled where he sat, eyes squeezed shut in shame.

 _You know better_ , he scolded himself. _Meaningless sex doesn’t solve your problems. And sex with Marianne wouldn’t be meaningless, not entirely, not to her. It wouldn’t have been fair._

If he could strangle his inner voice, he would. He was sitting cock-out on a hotel bed, alone in his suite, having just declined what he knew would have been more than satisfactory sex with someone who would have made him feel good, at least for a little while. Someone who was his age, his type. Appropriate for him. The person who made the most sense for him.

But not the person he wanted.

“Nothing about this is fair,” he said aloud.

* * *

He was sitting in a dime-a-dozen deli, eating a mediocre quiche Lorraine and a mildly burnt black coffee, when the trashy tabloid-like show playing on the television affixed to the wall caught his attention.

“Penn Cattrall is cracking the whip on the cast of his newest film after pictures of his stars and crew partying the night away leaked on social media yesterday afternoon,” the all-smiles-and-Botox host reported with the seriousness of a real news anchor. “Though details of the film are kept under wraps, the cast and crew, as pictured here at Troubadanse, were letting loose.”

Photos flashed across the screen, watermarked with Instagram handles that were indecipherable to him. But he was more focused on the contents of the photos, particularly the ones that showed Margot mid-dance. Each photo of her was with a different man.

“Cattrall’s highly anticipated film, rumoured to be out next spring, stars The Night the World Renewed’s breakout star Oliver Abel and newcomer Margot Schuyler.”

The last photo that flashed on the screen made Thomas spill his coffee all over the newspaper he had been reading.

Margot. Smiling. Glowing, as if lit from within. Walking through the streets, presumably headed to another drinking destination. She wore a leather jacket, draped over her shoulders like a cape, that was far too big to be her own. A man, dressed in a tight T-shirt and jeans, held her hand as they exited the club and walked beneath the streetlights. A man with tattoos snaking over his arms.

Thomas squinted at the tattoos on the man’s arms.

That couldn’t be . . .

Oh, for fuck’s sake. Of fucking course.

He couldn’t stop himself from swearing out loud at the realization. “Fuck!”

“Hey,” the deli owner barked from over the counter, glaring at Thomas. “Pipe down. It’s too early for this shit, man.”

* * *

_The Silver Circle had him by the balls, and they all knew he knew it._

_But, even with his career on the line, he was brave enough to do what they would not._

_“If you don’t work on our project, you won’t work at all. And I will ensure that any project you attempt to take on from hereon out will fail.” The man sitting atop the shadow-shrouded throne – for what else would you call a gigantic armchair fashioned with real gold? – leaned forward, clasping his hands in his lap as though he was reprimanding a disobedient child._

_And, perhaps, in the eyes of the Silver Circle, he was._

_“Is that really what you want?”_

_Thomas’s nod was resolute._

_“Well.” The man leaned back, into the darkness. “That’s . . . disappointing.” His voice did not betray any emotion._

_Breaking the silence of the members looking on, a voice behind Thomas scoffed. “The great Thomas Hunt, giving up so soon.” Caustically, the voice added, loud enough to echo around the chamber in which they had all clichély gathered to hear Thomas’s decision, “The great Thomas Hunt, indeed.”_

_He began to turn to face the speaker. But the man on the throne spoke up before he could._

_“Bennett, my boy.” The man’s voice adopted an affectionate tone, as if he were speaking to his favourite son. “There is nothing great about a quitter.”_

* * *

_Does she know?_

Thomas was steadily pacing a path in his hotel room carpeting. It had been hours since he’d seen that stupid show, and yet the image of Margot holding Bennett’s hand as he led her out of the club was burned behind his eyelids.

The papers he’d had to comb through in preparation for Margot’s prolonged absence did not mention Bennett at all, so he wasn’t hired for the movie. Or, at least, not until the last second, when they were already in France.

A quick Google search on his phone indicated that Bennett Driscoll Ebbott was in the middle of post-production for his newest film, _Elle Baigne dans Clair de Lune_. It was already rumoured to be a front-runner for the Cannes Film Festival’s Grand Prix.

And, as much as it pained Thomas to look at, Bennett’s public Instagram page betrayed no new information. The director only five years his junior shared pictures of himself with his friends – half of whom he vaguely recognized from the handful of Silver Circle meetings he had been forced to attend – at tropical locales, sepia-toned shots of a drink in his hand, or dimly lit shots of a scene he was in the middle of editing. Nothing that would indicate that he would be part of Penn Cattrall’s newest film, or that he had a reason to be in that particular part of France for any other reason than to possibly recruit a rising star.

“Fuck,” he grumbled, tossing his phone onto the bed. He followed suit a moment later, burying his face in his hands as his back sunk into the decadently soft duvet.

_The only other reason he’d be with her, if not to recruit her, is . . ._

His throat went dry.

He was not naïve. He’d been overseas for plenty of projects before, acting or directing or sometimes both, and he knew the culture that came with being far from home with likeminded people who were, by all accounts, attractive and talented and driven. It wasn’t uncommon for cast and crew to get caught up in casual romantic entanglements, even if there were people waiting for them at home.

Thomas was never really one for those kinds of distractions. Not with his own cast or crew. Not when he was intent on becoming – and then maintaining his reputation as – a respected actor and director, and overall Hollywood star. He simply didn’t see the appeal of it.

_But what about Bennett?_

_What about Margot?_

* * *

He was surprised to find an email from Marianne in his inbox the next morning. It was a brief one, simply stating that she was still interested in putting some of his students to work for Fashion Week experience, but he read between the lines, as he always did with communications from her. She was ruthless in the fashion industry, a cutthroat careerwoman, but she had a soft spot for him. He was always grateful for it.

Sifting through his emails, he pulled up an update from Priya.

_Please tell your student that her production progress journal should be more focused on the production she is working on and less on her innermost thoughts. I feel like I’m reading her diary._

He typed back a quick response and was not at all shocked to get an immediate reply.

_She’s been writing about her progress as a person as well as a working actress. If I recall correctly, she’s been pushing through some personal blocks to strengthen her performance. I wouldn’t exactly turn my nose up at that._

_If you’re so defensive about this student and her work, then I assume you have no issue with my handing control of the marking back to you._

He thought about declining. He really did.

But he also kind of wanted to see how things were going.

* * *

_Production Progress Journal Entry 29:_

_The Presence is just as terrifying on the sound stage as they are in the real catacombs. If it is just a performance, they’re giving a hell of a good one. But I honestly wouldn’t be surprised if Penn somehow found a restless spirit to inhabit a green suit for this film. He’s very into verisimilitude._

_Moving to the sound stage has been relieving for everyone. I can tell those weeks of working underground have taken a toll. Oliver is thisclose to kissing the floor of the sound stage, that’s how relieved he is._

_As for your questions, Professor Singh, I think it is important to talk about the mystery of the actor behind the Presence. It’s fun to speculate who it may be. (And I stand firmly by my Tobey Maguire guess.) Also, I know what I’m doing with this production progress journal; I’m documenting my time on set and how I’m personally adapting to this work environment and the expectations that come with the role I’m playing. If you read my earlier entries, you may see what I’m talking about._

* * *

_Priya Singh’s comments on Production Progress Journal Entry 29:_

_Miss Schuyler, I hope you have been provided with a rubric as to how you are being graded for this assignment. You will find that you are not meeting the expectations set by the school and your professor. I insist that your future entries are done in accordance with the rubric. It appears that Professor Hunt has been too lenient on you and your entries. That stops here._

* * *

_Production Progress Journal Entry 30:_

_Today we filmed on a sound stage. We had to reblock a scene because we had not anticipated some of the set pieces to be placed where they were. While the lighting was getting adjusted, Penn explained to me that the Presence is a metaphor for the main characters’ hardships. I’m sort of curious if he’ll make it a corporeal entity, given that information. I was under the impression that it wouldn’t be visible at all._

_Regardless, the actor behind the Presence continues to out-act me without ever speaking. They really know what they’re doing, and even though they don’t talk ever (even when the crew burst into “Everybody (Backstreet’s Back)” during lunch break), I have really grown to enjoy and respect their – ironic – presence on set._

_I know this is too personal, but I thought it was worth noting that when I returned to my room after I was done work for the day, I found a note on my bedside table written on the hotel stationery. A vague message: “We are watching.” And then they’d drawn a perfect circle, like they’d traced the rim of a glass on the paper. The metallic silver ink they’d used smudged when I touched it, so I knew that it had recently been written, but I nor security could find anyone in my room, or any other proof that someone else had been there. Odd. They may switch me to another room because of it._

* * *

Thomas’s throat tightened up.

 _It’s them_ , he wanted to scream at her. _It’s begun._

* * *

_Priya Singh’s comments on Production Progress Journal Entry 30:_

_Focus on your film._

* * *

_Production Progress Journal Entry 31:_

_Per the rubric:_

_Today we filmed on a sound stage. It smelled like stale armpits, and we had a production assistant plug in some wall things that made the whole place smell like stale armpits and pumpkin pie. It was so strong that tears filled my eyes, which in turn helped with my performance with Oliver Abel this afternoon. We had to film part of the scene in reverse to protect the back of Oliver’s head as he “fell.” I learned that directors often do that, make a character who is falling film the scene backwards so that they can sit up instead, and they reverse it in post. Who knew._

* * *

_Priya Singh’s comments on Production Progress Journal Entry 31:_

_Your entries need to be much longer for you to receive credit for them._

* * *

_Production Progress Journal Entry 32:_

_Today, the nineteenth, a Tuesday, we – meaning the cast and crew of Penn Cattrall’s newest motion picture – filmed on a sound stage in France, the same stage on which we have been working for the past week. We worked from six in the morning to ten at night, taking minimal breaks to maximize our efficiency while renting out the space. I know we will be working on this film on the same sound stage next week, and most likely the week after as well, before wrapping and heading to our respective places of residence in Los Angeles, California, USA. We were instructed by the director, Penn Cattrall, to do multiple takes and angles of a scene. The scene involved my co-star, Oliver Abel, and me crawling through a small tunnel made of bone shards, which are fragmented bone pieces made of harmless rubber and plastic and constructed by the talented crew here. It was a very claustrophobic scene to film. (Claustrophobia, if you are unaware, essentially means “a fear of small spaces, and being trapped in those spaces.”) Again, Oliver Abel powered through his performance, using his real-life claustrophobia to make his character seem just as suffocated and terrified as he probably felt. I scratched my elbow and upper right arm on a surprisingly tough piece of plastic while we were filming the scene, but otherwise did all right. Nothing that the first aid technician and kit couldn’t handle._

* * *

“Thomas.”

“I wanted to apologize before I left.”

“There’s nothing to apologize for.”

Thomas rolled the mini-bar water bottle over his forehead. The condensation and the cool plastic soothed his roaring headache, if only for a few merciful moments. Sinking down into the plush armchair by the window, he stared at the gauche wallpaper that had felt so luxurious days earlier.

“I . . . really am sorry, Marianne,” Thomas continued. “It wasn’t fair for me to lead you on. I also regret how I sent you away.”

Marianne’s laugh was surprisingly genuine. “Maybe you don’t remember, but I recall you were painfully polite about changing your mind. Sure, I would have appreciated a better heads-up than when I was already in your lap, but . . . well, at least you regret sending me away instead of the entire evening.”

Thomas sighed. “Well, thank you for . . . well, thank you.”

“You’re very welcome.” And, where she could have simply hung up the phone, Marianne lingered, pausing in a hesitation that was clear on Thomas’s end, and then she spoke again. “What’s changed?”

Thomas, who had uncapped the water bottle and taken a swig, nearly choked.

“What do you mean?” he asked once he had nearly coughed a lung out.

When she replied, it was clear Marianne’s voice had lost its professionally neutral edge. In its place was an emotion he couldn’t quite put his finger on.

His mind hummed with possibilities.

Melancholy?

Reminiscent?

Sad?

“We’ve done this sort of thing before,” Marianne said quietly. “Meeting up, dinner, no-strings-attached. But it’s never elicited a response like this before. Something’s changed.” There was another pause. “ _You’ve_ changed.”

Thomas rubbed a thumb against his lip.

“I don’t know about that,” he said slowly.

An undignified snort came from the other end of the phone, a sound he’d never heard from the magazine editor-in-chief before, not even in their youth.

“Oh, but _I_ do,” she replied.

* * *

The late-night flight to Los Angeles was surprisingly empty. In his first-class seat, he already had the luxury of more than enough space for himself and his carry-on, so he soaked in the blissful, blissful silence.

And then his damn mind betrayed him.

 _The Silver Circle doesn’t make their existence known to just_ anybody _. They were sending a message. To her . . . or to me._

He glanced around the plane, as if expecting to find one of the members skulking in a seat behind him. Instead, he made uncomfortable eye contact with a flight attendant who, at the precise moment their eyes met, wobbled in her heels. He snapped his gaze back to his seat’s screen, where a movie he didn’t remember choosing played on.

 _Stop being paranoid_ , he told himself. _It couldn’t be a message for me. It was written for her. They want_ her _._

He understood why. With Penn Cattrall’s name on her already impressive list of credits, she garnered more and more attention. Margot Schuyler now had a short Wikipedia page that wasn’t flagged for its unnecessary creation, which in and of itself was a sign that people were looking. Several fan pages sprouted up when he Googled her name. A proper picture of her – that is, a photograph of her walking the red carpet at some inane Chris Winters-centric premiere – showed up first under the Images tab. Just Jared and Getty Images supplied a large amount of the snaps that came up.

Not that he was searching for her a lot. He wasn’t. It was a simple check, to see if his theory about her recognition was correct.

_You’re in denial._

Thomas rested his head in his hand, tugging at the thick hair on his head as if the slight pain of pulling would be enough to stop his thoughts from coming.

Instead, he felt a bit of a headache coming on.

_They’re going to recruit her. Or maybe they already have. Maybe the die’s been cast long before that gossip show report. Maybe Bennett is there to guide her through their initiation, to ensure that she’s “worthy” of being one of them._

_Maybe Bennett isn’t interested in her for the Silver Circle’s sake. Maybe . . . maybe . . ._

He bit the inside of his cheek hard enough that he tasted blood.

 _We can’t._ I _can’t_ , he reminded himself. _There is so much working against this, against us. The age gap. Our careers. Our reputations._

The hand on his armrest clenched and unclenched as the memory of running his hand over a curved back draped in silver-blue silky softness. Through the metallic tang in his mouth, he briefly tasted candy-flavored lip gloss and soft, sweet lips.

_There have been worse age gaps. She won’t be your student forever. You could make it work if you let yourself want her._

_I’m getting too old for this shit_ , he told himself. _Too old to be looking at a woman as young as Margot. Too old to be even considering a romantic relationship with her. Too old to be hiding a boner on a flight-_

“Sir?”

Thomas blinked up at the flight attendant standing by his seat. She smiled down at him, and he prayed to whatever deity was watching the exchange that she wouldn’t see what he was trying his hardest to hide.

“Yes?”

She instructed him to turn his seat upright, which he did as soon as she walked far enough away. Once that was done, he settled back into his seat, grateful for the disruption that took him out of his head.

_You’ve already given up your career for them. Are you going to let the Silver Circle take her, too?_

* * *

He let himself ruminate over the question for days.

Thomas was on autopilot. The same routine, day in and day out, save for the lecture topics or the scathing reviews he left on assignments. He felt as if someone else was holding the strings to him, doing everything to keep him looking and acting almost the same as always.

Get up. Shower. Dress. Breakfast. Drive. Lecture. Break. Lecture. Break. Marking. Food, somewhere in between. Drive. Exercise, if there’s time. Change. Sleep.

_You’ve already given up your career for them. Are you going to let the Silver Circle take her, too?_

In the end, what snapped him out of his sleepwalk was another gossip show. He was in the process of purchasing a coffee when he heard her name from the television in the shop corner.

“With Penn Cattrall’s latest project having wrapped, it seems that newcomer Margot Schuyler is already being sought out by directors. However, there is one who has shown great interest in her, and not just in her acting. In a photo posted on makeup artist Milla Moren’s Pictagram page, Margot seemed chummy whilst popping bottles with director Bennett Ebbott at Cattrall’s wrap party last night. Ebbott, whose film, _Elle Baigne dans Clair de Lune_ , is in post-production, left an overtly flirty comment under the picture.”

“This is what news is now, huh?” the barista said flatly to another whilst handing him his cardboard cup of caffeine. “A couple of heart emojis, and it’s breaking news.”

The other barista working the counter smirked. “There’s no way they’re not, you know.” He wiggled his eyebrows suggestively.

Thomas’s face flushed.

“Ew,” the first barista said. “Can we not talk about this in front of the customers?”

He was slightly grateful that they seemed not to recognize him.

The second barista held his hands up in mock surrender. “Just saying. Director/actress is so cliché, but it’s cliché for a reason.”

At the sound of her name again, Thomas stopped paying attention to the bickering baristas and focused on the screen.

“Ooh, this story just got juicier.” The host did a very awkward shimmy that Thomas was sure she secretly regretted. “This just in, _literally_ : Margot Schuyler spotted boarding a private plane with Bennett Ebbott at Paris's Orly Airport. Are they just flight-sharing friends, or is this relationship just taking off?”

The moment he saw the somewhat blurry snap of her being helped up the jet stairs by Bennett, the answer to the question he’d mulled over for so long finally came to him.

_A private jet._

_Bennett Ebbott._

_They already have her._

His jaw set, he stepped out of the coffee shop and into the cloudy morning. He took a gulp of the coffee, ignoring the heat that bit at his throat.

_If that’s who she wants – if that is what she wants – fine._

What hurt the most, out of all of what he’d just seen and heard, was that picture of her hand in Bennett’s, letting him lead her into the plane. She was smiling. She was radiant. A different energy emanated from her, even in that still shot. As if she knew all eyes would be on her, and she thrived in that knowledge.

As if she was already one of _them_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So much italicizing. I know, I know. He has a lot of thoughts!  
> The next chapter's . . . an interesting one, to say the least. And the third-longest so far. Hopefully I won't keep you in suspense for too long. ;)


End file.
